Almost Beloved
by Black and White Candid
Summary: Rose Weasley might have the perfect life: a loving family, top marks, and a gorgeous, loyal boyfriend. So why does she feel so stuck? When Scorpius Malfoy reenters her life, her world is turned on its head. Maybe some backwards is just what she needs...
1. Chapter 1

Shawn Smith is certainly perfect. This is one of the few things that the entire female population of Hogwarts School can agree is an undisputed fact: that dark-haired, green-eyed, tall, beautiful Shawn Smith is the most faultless creature that has ever set foot on soil, has ever taken a breath, gone swimming, or blinked. Gryffindor beater, prefect, second in all of his classes except for charms (for which he is first), and recipient of unnaturally decent genetics. He is adored by every teacher he has ever had, for how could a boy so diligent, determined, _delightful_ not simply be a gem in the eyes of any that have ever found a calling in bestowing knowledge upon the wizarding youth?

An exemplary specimen he is, that Shawn Smith. With those dark brown locks that invite touching, broad shoulders and smile, and a body that is perfectly formed and sculpted by years of quidditch practice; he is a living tribute to the male form.

Gilda Ipswitch swears that his penis is at least nine inches long, a scrap of gossip that nobody questions because it's probably true and Gilda is a shameless tart.

Even those brooding Slytherin girls, so desperate to prove that they are different from everyone else, so eager to non-conform, would trade in any amount of Sleekeazies to have him take an interest in them.

What's strange is, I don't even think he even realizes how others see him.

I could go on and on about how absolutely wonderful he is. How his eyes are green and his laugh is like rivers or whatnot. But I won't. Because anyone could tell you this. Every girl will have a different way of saying it, but, nevertheless, the content will remain generally cohesive and poetic.

I glance up from my toast and butter and he's smiling widely at me, which isn't rare. I send him back a chaste grin and continue eating, because I know that in a few minutes he'll tell me that he's going to protect me on Wednesday's match, something I don't really need but accept as a gesture. I suppose that's what really matters. Maybe I found it comforting or special the first few times, but I don't really remember. I've just come to expect it by now.

I stand and sling my bag over my shoulder, walking slowly, so he can catch up.

"Rosie!"

I turn and smile as he jogs up and kisses me gently on the lips. I begin to kiss him back but he pulls away.

"Are you ready for the match on Wednesday?" Shawn asks, his smile sweet and a little shy.

"Nervous. But ready. James has been drilling us hard as it is, so I think the team is set. But Torres is fast and she has a new broom. So who knows if I can beat her this year."

"We haven't lost a match to Ravenclaw in two years. And you know I'll be there."

"Yeah," I sigh. "You always are. I haven't worried about bludgers for months."

We walk down the hall in silence and people stare at him, only noticing me because they know he cares. I wonder if they wonder what he sees in me, as I'm wondering that too. Stepping outside brings me out of my daze as a blast of wind blows my hat off my head and stings my eyes.

Shawn is a gentleman and runs after my hat. I wait for him. Because he's a gentleman.

Part of me contemplates running, when I feel wool fit snug over my hair. His hands are warm as I feel them on my ears, which tend to turn red as the weather gets colder.

I can already see Professor Hagrid as we walk to class. Shawn's bare hands are covering my now gloved ones. First years stare enviously, and I begin to question what makes him so special. Would they be more appreciative if they had him?

I know I'm undeserving, or unappreciative, whatever one would call this restlessness. But I want to know what it would be like to feel passionate about someone that cares for me. I haven't felt that. Every day I push things a little further, go a little past where he's comfortable, and every time he pulls away, makes an excuse.

Often, if I have the time to spare, I'll close my eyes and imagine what it would be like to have his lips take mine heatedly after classes. His hands firm against my neck, pressing me to him.

"I really want you to kiss me," I say, my voice imitating those seductive women in mum's movies the best I could, despite the slight sharpness and disdain for the characters.

He blushes, which for most might be endearing in its contradiction but just irritates me at this point, and looks at me like prey in the hands of a lion.

"Hagrid is about to start the lesson."

And that is the end of that, so I grumble and step inside the mammoth hut.

"Now, what we 'ave here," Hagrid huffs, trying to keep hold of whatever was wriggling in his large hands, "well, who knows what we 'ave here?"

My hand is the first in the air and I catch Francesca Widler roll her eyes. I want to take pride in this or tell myself that she's jealous, but in the end it still stings. Shawn's hand joins mine in the air.

"Ahm- Yes, you, Miss Weasley. Yes."

"It's a Niffler. They're harmless, but sniff out valuables, therefor making—"

"Terrible house pets, yes. Five to Gryffindor, Miss Weasley. Can en'one tell me where they can be found?"

He explains how to calm them, clean them, and what to expect for their mating habits, the latter of which may be the most revolting thing I have ever seen. But James already shoved this lesson under my nose last year, so I let my eyes glaze and my mind run free.

I had friends before Shawn. My cousins, yes, but others as well. So it wasn't quite like he had blessed me with popularity. I was just given a bridge into a different world. I always knew of the post-curfew gatherings, but never had the courage or the connections to be welcome. With him I could be part of it, envied. Admired even. Seen less as the top-of-her-class-in-every-little-fucking-thing Rose Weasley, but as 'alright' or 'kind of cool'. Because I am. I can take a shot of Firewhiskey if I want and can hold it, get drunk if that is what the rest are doing. Because I have it right. Because I _am _alright.

The sound of the outside, wind and leaves, fills the back of my mind and the room and I lazily turn to acknowledge the lanky blond that enters the hut.

"I was in the infirmary..." he mumbles, voice low and course. His eyes are on his feet, so his hair shields some of his face.

Hagrid smiles and shrugs. "Go on an' take a seat then, Malfoy."

Malfoy nods and slips into the in front of me. His hand brushes my arm accidentally, and he looks over and utters a distant "sorry". I nod, somehow unable to look away.

He has the bluest eyes I have ever seen.

And they meet mine and I feel like a rock is in my throat and my stomach won't sit still, yet I haven't seen Scorpius in three years and hate him for having left at all. For being a typical Malfoy, a coward.

But at the same time I want him to speak to me, to apologize, so things could go back to how they were.

Quills and books are taken out of his bag; he takes notes. He doesn't look at me. I know it is forced: he's too stiff and fidgety, his bag catches around his ankle. He trips as he stands, pulling laughs from his fellow Ravenclaws.

But he never looks at me.

He wouldn't. Not after what he's done.

Bells ring in the distance, alerting the class that the lesson is over. Naturally, everyone stands quickly, all desperate to get one step closer to the end of classes. Scorpius is the first one out the door.

"Rosie?" Shawn steps in front of me, curious.

"Hmm?"

"Are you okay?"

It isn't hard to tell that he's concerned. His whole face is concerned, as well as his body. His eyes are especially concerned because they furrow slightly. Even his hair is concerned, I'm sure. Because he's Shawn. And nobody cares more than him.

"I feel a little light headed." And I shrug, peck him on the cheek, and run before he can ask anything more.

Something reminds me that I should be thankful. I'm lucky. _Fucking_ lucky. Bookish Rose Weasley bags the most lusted after boy in the school. Silly Rose. Plain Rose. Rose, with the troll-sized— no, basilisk-sized— family and the shadow of her parents looming over her. It could have been someone more deserving. Someone like Leah Franks, who is tall and blonde and incredibly nice. Or Greta Maddock, who was wildly talented and funny. But for some reason, for some strange tip in the scales of fate, I was the one. But that same instinct that is telling me to be grateful is also telling me that I want something more.

When he asked me out, I was moderately retarded in answering. Yes, we were friends from the Quidditch team, but not much more. So I was rather surprised that in the second week of the year I had a date. I had just come back from Charms, frustrated at Damien Thomas and his acute ability to slow me down, when the legendary sixth-year, blushing but forward, asks me to Hogsmeade and throws a bouquet of roses into my arms. Startled, I stammered out an astounded yes.

From there on, it was sealed. Fate. He thought I was perfect, and every one _knew_ he was. And things _felt_ like... something. At least it did then. Because I was starstruck? Not many handsome boys had an interest in me. And because at first, when everything was fresh and amazing, I had no inclination of him being predictable. He would steal me from my dorm room at one in the morning and fly me up to the astronomy tower.

Soon, I would learn that he would do that every time he had an issue with an essay.

After Tranfiguration, I find Shawn in the great hall playing Exploding Snap with his mates.

Inspiration strikes. I wind my hair into a high ponytail and unclasp the first two buttons of my shirt. I take a seat next to him and rest a hand on his thigh.

"Fly up to my room when you're done playing," I order to his ear with a husky whisper, just loud enough for his friends to hear. "I have a surprise for you."

I run spritely away, turn back to give him a quick stare, and know that I've done it right. His friends are grinning wolfishly and pushing him off the bench, so I run to my room and look for something to surprise him. The best I can do is grab perfume and spray it on my shoulders.

Leaves and cold air fill my dormitory, so I know he's here. Nervous and uncomfortable, but here.

Leaning on the windowsill, making sure that my buttons haven't redone themselves, I invite him in, to which he gulps.

"Well, come in," I offer.

"My broom," he says weakly.

"Just bring it in."

Almost reluctant, he enters and takes a seat on my bed. He laces his hands together and stares at his feet.

"What was it you wanted to show me?"

I smirk and crawl onto my bed, my legs folded under me, and I stare at him, waiting for him to show some interest.

_Be sexy, be sexy, don't be a dork. Please, do __**not**__ be a dork._

"I got a new perfume. I wanted to know what you thought of it."

I inch nearer and he sniffs lightly, his nose brushes my neck. I blink girlishly and asks him if he likes it before taking his lips against mine. He tastes a bit of pumpkin juice and smells like men's body wash, which almost makes me sneeze. I keep expecting him to lean away or break the kiss, but finally I feel his course hands on my back, encouraging me to lift myself on his lap. His teeth nibbled slightly on my lip and I let his tongue into my mouth. Breathing heavily, his hands roam up.

It's easy to tell that a situation has changed when the boy you were just kissing literally throws you off him and onto the floor.

"Oh shit, Rosie, I'm so sorry." He pulls me back onto the four poster. "I didn't mean to go so far, I just didn't— oh my god, I'm— Rosie. I wasn't thinking."

"B-but I wanted you to."

He stares at me and then the ground, shaking his head.

"Rosie, my parents are, _I am_, catholic. I want to live true. I can't. I'm sorry, but you need to understand that I can't be this tempted."

"Of course I understand." And I do. But I hate it.

He grins and wraps his arms around me. "You're the best."

I feel safe in his arms. I feel warm. I feel...

Shit. I feel bored. I shouldn't, but I do.

When I fall asleep, I dream of what it would be like to be naked next him. To have him kiss shapes on my stomach, his blonde hair tickling and making me giggle.

As I wake the next morning, I realize that Shawn doesn't have blonde hair.

I promptly tell myself to shut up and begin getting ready for the day.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: Honestly? Do you really think I own Harry Potter?**

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"James, stop being such a dick. Al, tell your brother to stop being a dick."

"Stop being a dick," Al says half-heartedly, hardly trying as he focuses on his paper. He pushes his glasses further up on his nose and stares into the common room fire.

James laughs in my face, some of his spit landing on my cheek as he does so. I really want to punch him but that would make me the lesser person. And being the lesser person when compared to James says a lot about a person.

"Cor. What did Aunt Ginny do to get landed with _you_? Certainly doesn't deserve it."

"Bitch and moan, Rosie, bitch and moan, but it doesn't change the fact that you're boyfriend is pure as snow," James taunts, taking a seat on the couch, his legs and arms spread too wide to let anyone else have a seat. "It'd take a tidal wave to deflower that Daisy."

"Congratulations, you managed not to say rose."

"Please, little cousin, I'm a man of subtlety."

"If by subtle you mean vulgar, boorish, and slow, then yes, James, you certainly are," mumbles Albus, whose glasses have yet again slipped. "Leave Rose alone. If everyone was as loose as you, we'd be one very infected nation."

I sit on the floor and lean against Al's chair, enjoying the last hour of sun on my face as it blazes through the tall windows. When everyone is quiet, when my eyes are closed, the commons are serene, a place easy to think in, to be in. I can hear my own thoughts fit into place, some things making more sense than others, but all coherent and sane.

And then those light blue eyes sneak into my eyes and everything's a frenzy. A disaster.

"Rose!"

I jerk, opening my eyes wide. Albus is staring at me. James as well.

"What," I asked, pensive. "What is it?"

"We've been calling you for three minutes. Are you okay?"

"Why does everyone keep asking me that?" I grumble irritably, rubbing the corner of my mouth. "I'm fine! I just must have fallen asleep. Now, practice? Or would you rather lose Ravenclaw?"

James nods and stands, stretches. He hands me my broom before taking his, checking that I haven't scratched or harmed it. James'll do this whenever he handles a broom and every time I'll assure him that I'm careful, but, alas, it makes no difference since he'll ask again in a week.

Albus bids us farewell as we leave for the pitch.

"Have you been practicing your feint?"

"Naturally," I say coolly, because he doesn't know that Uncle Harry taught me himself over the summer.

Nothing can make James focus like Quidditch. Whether it's the flying or just the sport of it, his passion for the game is more intense than I've seen anyone else show. Most attribute our success to his sheer ability and grace. He _is_ an expert flyer, but that isn't why Gryffindor has won the cup three years straight, not the only reason, at least.

He makes us be a team. Even if we aren't friends or family off the field, even if we have issues with one another, each player is there for all the others. Each one of us is prepared to take a backup position if one of us wipes out. I double as a Keeper, he could take my position as seeker if need be. You know by watching us play that James was born for this and loves it more than anything else. Maybe that's why he's never kept a girlfriend. She would always come second. But it could just be that he's and arse.

It's probably because he's an arse.

He and I stride onto the pitch, our feet bare and stinging against the cold grass. Everyone is there. Except for Damien Thomas, who is late _again_. He commands the rest to take off anything on their feet, even though two of them have already done so. We grouch every time, but know it helps us stick to and feel our brooms.

"Damien," James pipes up, irritated, as our Keeper finally arrives, walking slowly even as James hollers at him. "How many times? How many?! Do you _want_ us to lose? Because Ravenclaw, bless their fucking souls, would be _very_ happy to help you! I turned down Root, who knows a hell of a lot more, because I knew _you_ could maneuver, but if you can't bloody show up, there wasn't much point to that choice was there?! Everyone else was here— _What_, Kenneth?"

Kenneth McMillan, one of his fellow Chasers, talks him into taking some deep breaths and letting Damien off with a warning. Brent Cameron, the third of the three looks relieved, since James tends to take out his stress on his ability to pass.

Shawn steps next to me and takes my hand.

"You know I'm going to be there, right? So nothing will hurt you. I've made sure of that since you joined in my third year."

Though it doesn't really surprise me, I never knew he's been looking after me since I was twelve. Touched and not sure what to say, I lean in and kiss him softly the moment James turns away.

I break the contact and smile. "Thank you, but I keep telling you that I'm not afraid. Like, I'm… I'm thankful but I'm fine. You worry too much."

"I'm not the worried one. _You_ look like the one who needs a deep breath. Just, um, you've been strange since yesterday, jumpy and such. It isn't about me, well…?"

"No. It's okay. I mean, we don't have to have sex, but you could at least let me kiss you for longer than a few seconds… right?"

"Right," Shawn nods.

But he's lying. I don't have to be a mind reader to tell he isn't having it. He wants to live right and I respect that.

I hate it and think it's _stupid_, but I respect it.

Bollocks. He's basically asking me to abstain with him. Dying a virgin isn't on my list of priorities, and I like Shawn enough to want something to follow a peck on the lips. It doesn't have to be sex. No. It always seemed like that before, but now that I know why anything that isn't cuddling sounds like a blooming aphrodisiac!

A broomstick comes to a sudden stop in front of us and James is glowering.

"Are you two quite done? You may notice we have a match tomorrow that we aren't ready for. So, when you're ready, I suppose we can take some slow laps and get ice-cream as a reward."

I mount my broom, sneering.

"Hell, James, if you glared any harder I swear you would have been undressing my boyfriend with those eyes. Let's keep it in our knickers, boys. Yeah? Shall we?"

I fly off before he can utter any protest and show off my feints. If that doesn't cheer him up, we're all in a sad state. Shawn looks at the ground, seemingly mortified.

I promise, I'm not a bad person. Unfair. That's what I am. Why on earth should I mock Shawn, especially with my cousin, who is already brasses-off. After all, he's like most of us, looking for something larger than ourselves. My version is just verified, something I've known all my life: sorcery. I respect the rules set upon me, so why should I laugh at his foundations?

Still, even though shame is in my throat, I feel worse over the fact that I don't feel that bad.

_Because it isn't fair to me. Because it's damn boring._

My lips tremble in distaste at my apathy and I pull my broom up, flying parallel to the ground, almost skimming the grass. James shouts that it was a little too low, but I ignore it. The lower I can go, the better I can be. The better we'll do.

I soar up and up, over the rings, looking down at Shawn and Alice Zhang beating the bludgers away from the others. It's clearer up here, cleaner air, less noise. Cold winds push my broom; wrap my red curls around my face. It feels peaceful, despite the shivering under my sports cloak. Even my toes, freezing as they are, feel better in the air than on the ground.

Had I the option to live in the wind, I would take it. In the wind there's no vestal boyfriends or annoying cousins or slaggy girls being nasty. No O.W.L.'s breathing down every word I write.

No Scorpius Malfoy sitting in the Ravenclaw box, staring at me as I stare the setting sun on the clouds. Fuck, why does is he here? Why _here_? Impossible for him to choose a better time to acknowledge my existence, that's right. Like I didn't have enough of him and his idiotic hair and eyes in my mind already. Obviously, I need to be tortured further. Feel worse about every relationship I have, question what I really want to feel and what I really care about.

Blue eyes, _his_ blue eyes, are nonetheless entrancing.

He's still looking at me. And maybe almost smiling. And he hardly blinks at all, the fire in my stomach flares, painful and delicious all at once.

No longer able to bear his gaze, feel his gaze, without toppling off my broom, I speed down.

_Looking at me like that, what right does he have? After being such a wanker. Couldn't just clear off. Couldn't just have stayed away from me, made things simple and let me go on being with my dull boyfriend and be unsatisfied. __**No**__, not dull, not unsatisfied; longing for __**Shawn's**__ touch. Wanting more is what it is. _

"Rose!"

It's as if I had been blinded, like my mind had folded a cloth flat over my eyes and hid the ground, and then returned my sight. I suddenly see the earth and its grass and the field chalk and the very tip of my broom pointing to it like a seer's arrow.

Panic-stricken, I veer my handle to the left, but it's in vain. For a second, it's plausible that someone could save me.

But all is black, feelingless. Numb.

Until my lips pull in a shred of air. Then, there's nothing but pain. Scalding, white pain. In my hands, my back, my hips. I can't see anything but the agony of the fall. Everything is muffled and unimportant because it hurts to exist. I don't know if I'm crying. I try to ask James but I scream instead. Someone is lifting me, moving me, and it feels like acid and glass and hot iron on open muscle.

I'm dying. I must be. How can anyone ache so much, feel so broken and twisted and pulled, and not be?

Something touches my face, smooth, cool, so I lean my head into it and wait for something to get better.

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When I wake, I don't really get the chance to remember anything.

"Rosie! Oh god, Rosie. Are you okay?" James rushes to my side and grabs my wrist, checking for a pulse, as if my speaking isn't an adequate indication of me being alive. He sighs and smiles lightly, placing a hand over my forehead.

"What happened?" I ask, rubbing my head as it pounds against my ears.

"You dived from too high and didn't pull up in time from your feint."

"The damage? What is it?"

Biting his lip, he shakes his head. "You hit hard Rosie. And vertical. The list… of all that was wrong— a severe concussion, four broken bones, bruises, cuts. I can't let you play today.

_What_?

"B-but none of the others can take on Torres. I'm the fastest one on this team. She'll have the snitch the moment she sees it!"

"Torres is off the team. She's been replaced. Malfoy is their new seeker. Walker told me, said that Scorpius challenged her for the position and everything."

"_Malfoy_ is their seeker? He was watching us practice!"

I curse at my gullibility. How could I have been deluded enough to think Scorpius Malfoy was there to watch me? He was there and _only_ there to see how I fly.

I argued through gritted teeth. "James. Please. You _have_ to let me do this! Uncle Harry flew with a broken arm. I need this. I have to—"

"Shut _up_, Rose!" He screams.

Never in as long as I've known him has he gotten angry. That was always me. He's been annoying and dense and careless and I've frequently wanted to kill him, but he's always laughed along and smiled. Though he teased and provoked, he constantly praised me and protected me as if Ginny had been my mom too.

I fall silent.

"What? And why? So you can get some sort of closure over the fact that you beat him in something? Some scrap of revenge? Scorpius won't care, he won't even know that you're doing this to spite him. If you would really risk your health over this, then you have your spot. But know my position. And know that you're off the team if you get hurt."

"For how long?"

"As long as it takes for someone to replace you."

My cot is too stiff. I'm Itching to move, to prove myself. To get away from how hurt James looks and how guilty I feel.

"I have to beat him, you know I do. It isn't just about me, you know that, don't you?" My hand tousles his hair but he still looks serious.

"It certainly doesn't involve me," he scoffs. "Don't think any of us really care that much about it anymore. _You_ were the one involved and _you're_ the one who is still angry. Not me."

If they knew what it was like to have him be such a coward, to have everything thrown in your face, they would be angry. Drastically angry. But they're all cowards too.

The Weasley-Potters never want to fight, never want to confront everything. The war dragged all of the fight out of my parents. I think it's the same for Uncle Harry and Auntie Gin as well. True, I wasn't there. So how could I know? Maybe I'm wrong. But I've heard the stories and I've seen the faces of those that tell them, the bitten lips and twisted eyebrows that tense when the death of a friend is mentioned. Everyone was so tired of fighting that they got rid of anything argumentative left in their systems.

War heroes are supposed to carry their scars with pride, but instead, they hid everything away that reminded them of conflict. Then they had me. Maybe _I'm_ their fight. They emptied whatever left they had into me. Having aggression isn't so bad, it's nice to have something to set me apart from my massive family.

James huffs, his throat sounding hoarse. "You hit the ground going over sixty. Why can't you talk to him about it? Like fight verbally instead of physically."

"I get it if you don't get it. If you aren't angry. But you're right that I am angry. Maybe it is affecting my judgment, I don't know, maybe. I'm just not happy doing nothing."

"Merlin, Rose, then kick his ass once you've healed up!"

"…….Fine."

"Fine? Okay?"

"Okay," I nod.

_It's just because I don't want to be kicked off the team_, I tell myself. But it's a lie. It's because I know James would hate me and tell my dad. Then I would never feel right about it.

He places a cup of pumpkin juice on the table next to my cot. "Shawn wanted to see you."

"Please no," I whine. Maintaining my relationship can wait. "I can't deal with someone nice."

"I'm nice!" He laughs.

"When you aren't mocking me or skirt chasing, yeah."

"Rubbish. I bet you I can keep a steady girlfriend until the end of the month!"

Snorting at Jams' idea of devotion, I roll my eyes. "Aiming high there Colonel Commitment. …You promise you won't interfere when I duff him up?"

"Only if you get some sleep now."

Promising to get notes from Albus for me, he turns off the light and exits the hospital wing, leaving me to wallow in my thoughts.

Once my arm is back in shape, that Scorpius Malfoy won't know what hit him.

Well, obviously my fists, but that's hardly the point.


	3. Chapter 3

**This one is a bit longer than the rest, but it clears up a lot of back-story, so I think it's long for a good reason. Oh. And have no, do not, and never will own Harry Potter. Sadly.**

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I'm tired of my good grades, but I don't say that because I'm Rose Weasley. I want to follow Oléva Copperlin to Hogsmeade and have her apparate me off the grounds, but I don't do that because of my Mother. I want to tell Shawn that he's predictable, but I can't because he's my boyfriend. I wanted to jump on my broom and swipe the snitch from under Malfoy's nose, but I didn't do that because of James.

I'm tired of living through others and I want to stop, but I don't try to because I'm too scared. If I were smart, being happy would be more important to me, but as time rolls on, finding the drive to be satisfied never wins.

My hand slips off the quill and falls sharply on the table, and I inhale against the discomfort.

"Rosie? Maybe I should help you with that?" Shawn pauses as he seems to notice my resentful, if not totally annoyed, stare and adds, "Because of the sling."

"I'm fine, …Shawn"

"It's like the third time—"

"I said I'm fine!" I snap my book shut and shove it into my bag with my working hand, then take my crutches under my arms and stand. "I'm going to the common room."

But instead I follow my feet to the lake and dig my heels into the loamy soil, resting my arm behind me as I gracelessly sit. The lake is my favorite spot on the grounds, uncontested. When I need to think it's always there for me to stare at, and always seems most beautiful when I don't know where else to go or when my head's too vague. And if I happen to carry a Pumpkin Pasty with me, the squid will surface every time, religiously. Fortunately, I always have two on three in my bag's side pocket (me and squid share a fondness for them). Reaching into my bag, a treat is tossed to the water, and, sure enough, a bluish tentacle wraps around it inquisitively before it gets pulled underwater.

It isn't perfect weather for thinking, but it does fine.

We lost our game against Ravenclaw. James put in Watson Cots, and according to Albus, Malfoy was so fast the game had hardly started before it ended. Being the considerate person he is, he thought I might want the stats the moment I got out of the infirmary. I made it a priority to let him know that he was very, _very_ wrong.

To make matters worse, _far_ worse, my plan for giving Malfoy what for has been put on hold by orders of Madame Feverfew. In order for my bones to recover from the spell properly, they have to sit in a sling for a few days, to rest. Recoup, she said.

Madame Feverfew is a blithering idiot. What's the point of healing if the spell itself could hurt you?

Now how am I supposed to find closure? Just talk it out? In case it wasn't clear, my family is uncannily gargantuan, and I am in no way exaggerating. I have my mom and dad, Gran Molly and Pop Arthur, _eleven_ cousins, nine aunts and uncles. It's a fair bit of nightmare. Trying to get a word in edgewise is like trying to talk to a quaffel: nothing will come of it.

Still, it isn't as if what has to be resolved could be settled with words. There's too much to be said.

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'_**7/2/2019**_

_**Rose,**_

_** I literally can't wait to see you. Don't worry too much about my Dad; I'm positive that he'll be relaxed about you coming over. He might not be totally thrilled about who your father is, but he assured me that the past is the past, things are different now, and that he's sure he'll like you if I do. So don't worry so much! I can practically see you pulling your hair out of your head from over thinking.**_

_** Mum said you could even stay a few nights, granted we sleep in separate rooms (no shit, Paracelsus.). I know you're going to love the room we set for you. Can't tell you what it's like, though. She said not to bring spare clothes because we have some here. Don't ask me why. I still think she wanted a girl.**_

_** Too bad Al couldn't come, eh? Would have had a great time, especially since he'd get to ride my dad's old Nimbus (make sure to taunt him about that). But I suppose that spending the summer studying with Luna Lovegood isn't a terrible second. Dad says everyone thought she was a nutter, but actually ended up the best magizoologist and finding half of the creatures no one believed in! **_

_** Still… Dad's old Nimbus.**_

_** Must go, Ninel needs help with the cake.**_

_** Happy Birthday to Me,**_

_** Scorpius'**_

_ I pocketed the note and grinned as I looked through my closet. Scorpius was going to be thirteen, hardly a boy anymore, I decided. Everyone knew that you become a teenager when you're thirteen, old enough to legally buy your own broom and order butterbeer. So I couldn't wear my usual summer shorts and sneakers. No. Something special was required._

_ "Victoire!"_

_ I was met with silence. _

_ "Victoire, __**pleeaase!**__"_

_ "What, what? Ro, what's the matter?" stammered my cousin, looking concerned. "What happened?"_

_ I shook my head and pointed to the closet. "I don't have anything to wear to Scorp's house. And I can't show up looking like a little boy!"_

_ Her shoulders and face relaxed as a bemused smile tinkered with her pink lips. Victoire was gorgeous and perfect, or at least she looked it. She had a mean temper when it came to the males in the family, but she was always darling to me. And she knew everything there was to know about being a girl._

_ "I see, today is his birthday. I almost forgot he was celebrating first at his house. He's here so often, Gran's planning a party here as well. Now," she paused as she stepped over the mess on my floor to reach my closet, "let's see. How about… this one."_

_ She pulled a white sundress out of the cramped space and held it up. I scrunched my nose._

_ "__**That**__ one? But it's so boring. I've worn it millions."_

_ "Right. Then…"_

_ She pulled out dresses and blouses and skirts, in blue, pink, black, and yellow. Clothes of all different forms and fits; yet one after another they were turned away. Nothing seemed right._

_ Victoire sighed and covered her eyes with a long graceful hand._

_ "Merlin, Ro. You don't have any clothes left."_

_ "But none are right! This one's too blue. That skirt is too long, while the other is too short! I don't have two chances at a first impression."_

_ "Hell, it isn't like you're dating him, luvvie. It's just— hold that thought."_

_ Her blonde hair trailed after her as she practically danced out of the room. _

_ "Here," she beamed, shoving it in my eyes as she bounded through the door. "It's perfect. I'm positive."_

_**It**__ was teal. Teal was my favorite color. __**It**__ was just the right length, cutting off a few inches above my knees. I eagerly tore off my tank and shorts and took the dress out of her hands._

_ "Warn me next time, Happy Flasher."_

_ "Shut it, I've known you all my life," I snarked back playfully as I smoothed the dress and stood straight. My eyes grew as I stared at my reflection. "V-Vic. I look like I have… breasts."_

_ "The magic of the right fit. That was mine when I was thirteen. It's lucky, it sounds like a load of waffle, but I have had so much luck in this thing. First date __**and**__ first kiss in one night, plus, I got asked to three dances in it. I also was the fifty-second person to walk past Honeydukes and got a free ice cream. I __**know**__ you're calculating, Rose. I know that look. But it's all true."_

_ I nodded and slipped on my flats, ran down stairs while pulling my hair into a messy bun. Whether I totally believed her, I couldn't tell, but there were always some truths in advertising, and there were definitely truths in Victoire's exquisiteness._

_ "Mum! Gran Molly! I'm heading to Scorpius'! Can I have some floo powder?"_

_ "Oh, dear, wait!" Gran Molly came shuffling in quickly, tucking my hair into place. "Hermione's gone to Diagon Alley to buy your dad some broom cleaner. But she said to enjoy and she'll see you whenever you get back. Ah- don't forget Scorpius' present, yes, that's right."_

_ She threw some powder into the fireplace and shielded my face as the green flames sprung from the ground._

_ "In, ducky." She held my face caringly, glowing with some sort of pride I didn't recognize. "My, you look lovely. Have a good time."_

_ "The Malfoy's, Covelly," I declared, stepping into the fire. My stomach wrenched as if someone tied a string around it, pulled me forward into a storm of green. Jade squares of light swirled to my left and right and finally, after what seemed like far to long for a short floo journey, I felt the pull again. Gasping against the sharp tug, I fell, eyes shut, tumbling out of the pristine fireplace._

_ I stood and rubbed my elbow, groaning lowly at the slight ache. Grace was never a particularly strong point for me, something I thought best to change by the time I met Scorpius' father._

_ "Rose!" Scorpius uttered delightfully, rounding the corner. I rather liked the way his voice sounded, seeing him for the first time as a teenager. He tangled me into his arms and lifted me from the marble ground in a breath-stealing hug._

_ "Happy birthday, tosser. Put me down."_

_ He smirked. "Tosser, eh? Watch your language, cheeky, I'm thirteen now."_

_ "Point being?"_

_ "Point being that I'm a man now and you have to listen to me on basis of seniority."_

_ "__**A man**__," I cackled incredulously. "Hardly!"_

_ "Pardon me, miss, I didn't know that you were picture of a blossoming adolescent!" _

_ My mouth soured into a displeased pout. Suddenly, it felt like all that confidence, all that maturity and femininity from Vic's dress, faded. And then I was just Rose again. Just Ro, Rosie: flavorless, dull Rose._

_ "You're a right git, you know that? A real git," I grumbled, folding my arms over my non-existent chest. _

_ I tried to identify the look on his face. Surprise, I decided, from the eyebrows and mouth. Scorpius was definitely surprised. Rolling his eyes, his pale face broke into a gleaming, fresh smile and tousled my hair with both hands, shaking it out of its bun._

_ "You ninny! I wasn't being serious. Swear to Merlin, you have no sense of humor."_

_ "Scorp, no, you're ruining my hair! Stop!" We were all giggles as his hands shifted and scrambled in my curls._

_ I noticed how close his hands were to my cheek and his face was to mine, and my heart began to pulse like I had just beat James to the snitch. I was aware of every freckle spotting my face as his breath hit them, instantly sure I could give up all of them for this boy._

_ A tiny voice interrupted us, and Scorpius' house elf, Ninel, bowed low at me. I hated that Scorpius had a house elf, but he treated Ninel well. Even so, he refused to treat him as an equal. Because of his father's upbringing I suppose._

_ "Young Master, Mr. Malfoy requests you and Young Miss in his study."_

_ I knew that the Malfoy's were rich. Crazy rich. Mum told me. But Draco Malfoy's study was the size of our common room! More! And filled to the ceiling with books and books and books, all on magical mechanics and clocks._

_ Mr. Malfoy was talking animatedly to the fire, someone chatting through the network, I suspected._

_ "Yes, so we'll send the grandfather clock off to Austria tomorrow and send the pendants to Perry for reworking next week. Yes… Yes, er, hold on a second, Carol?" He waved us in. "No, no problem, just my son and his frien— yes! The Weasley's girl. Yes, make arrangement, yes. Grand, Carol! I'll see you Tuesday. Yea, bye._

_ "My apologies, Carol got the two shipments mixed, honestly, she could have assumed. Trusting an entire grandfather clock to Perry. What an idea." He turns to us, a fatigued hand on his forehead._

_ "Dad, this is Rose Weasley."_

_ He regarded me with a nod. "Your mother is Hermione Granger. Smart girl. Too smart. I hear you take after her. Tell me, what is the stunning spell?"_

_ I gulped, "stupefy?"_

_ "Your typical Boil-Cure has what kind of quill?"_

_ "Porcupine."_

_ "Your father has the social grace of a…?"_

_ "Flobberworm?"_

_ He paused for a second, drummed his fingers on the table, nodded again, and turned back to the fire._

_ "He likes you," Scorpius whispered, seeming very pleased with me. "Come, let me show you your room." He folded his hands over my eyes. They were cool and slightly damp._

_ "Scorp."_

_ "Just so you don't peek."_

_ "I won't!"_

_ "Just… just let me? Okay? Please?"_

_ "… Fine. Lead the way, oh birthday child."_

_ I could walk up and down and all through The Burrow and my house even if my eyes had been gouged out. But the Malfoy's was huge and new and the floors were a chilly, smooth marble, and I soon found myself utterly disoriented. I focused on Scorpius' guiding hands._

_ He uncovered my eyes and the world was all at once full of light. The sun shone a bright yellow in the open room filled with shelves of books and glassware. I walked to the large burgundy chair and brushed my hand against it. Velvet, heavenly and soft. The room smelled of the mahogany desk, of parchment; the sounds of the sea and one of his father's clocks rung against the walls. He pulled against the clear windows and the breeze hurtled in, salted and moist and so fresh._

_ Supporting myself on the windowsill, I could nearly see all of Covelly and its water._

_ "Scorp, this is __**amazing**__! And we just stuff you in the spare bedroom at my place."_

_ He shrugged. And smiled. And he spoke. "I like my room."_

_ Scorp's birthday wasn't exactly a party, more like a dinner with his parents. But it was fun. Mostly. They had foi gras, which I was no fan of. Still, I learned that Mr. Malfoy was a rather talented dancer, provided that he had enough firewhiskey, and Mrs. Malfoy wasn't anything like I expected. She was warm and sweet and a little bit bonkers._

_ They were a bit like my family, only smaller and more reserved._

_ I slept well at night, enjoying the scent of the waves and the desk._

_ The days following were fantastic as well, we sat on the shore and went swimming and read books and talked about people at school we didn't like. We both agreed that the world would be better off without Gloria Midgen, who was so mean and horrid that even the teachers detested her. Afternoons were spent outside, except for the one day it rained, when I helped his mother bake a cobbler._

_ One day, before Scorp had woken up, I explored the house and got caught by Mr. Malfoy while tinkering with a music box. At first I was terrified he would be cross, but he smiled and said that it was one of the first things he ever sold. Then he took me to his workshop, where he showed me how to fit gears together and let me help him polish the grandfather clock that was due to be picked up. I hoped that he might offer me a free time pendant, but he didn't. It was okay though, because he was nothing like what my parents said he was._

_ On my last day, Scorpius brought me to the basement and we dug through the piles of old clothes and heirlooms, searching for his old bicycle. Once it was found, the tires dusty but still firm, we wheeled it out of the basement, struggling up the ramp, set it on the hill towards the sea, and grabbed a bag of fruit. _

_ "On."_

_ "What?"_

_ "On. The handlebar. On."_

_ "I'm not sure that's such a great idea. With this hill we'd catapult into the ocean," I gulped._

_ "Shut up and sit. You worry more than my Mum."_

_ I bit my lip and hoisted myself onto the handlebar, gulping at the height of the hill and then at Scorpius, worried. What if he didn't brake in time? I couldn't afford to be hurt when I was trying out for Quidditch._

_ His soft eyes stared into mine, and he reassured, "I won't let you get hurt. I promise."_

_ I held tight to the bar, eyes shut. "Okay," I said breathlessly, waiting for the sense of motion to bubble in my stomach. "Okay."_

_ I felt him begin to pedal. The bike jerked into motion, gained speed, went faster. Slowly, we began to tilt. The cobblestones hit the wheels hard, the bike shifted roughly under me, painful but exhilarating all at the same time. I opened my eyes and I noticed him laughing behind my shoulder and I laughed too. We hurtled down the street, laughing, most likely drawing stares, the wind blasting against our faces, turning our cheeks rosy. This was joy. This was love. I knew it. I was positive._

_ I heard a screech. Scorpius was slowing the bike to a slow stop in front of the stone wall that separated the town from the water. I let out a pent up breath I never knew I was holding._

_ "See?"_

_ "Yes! That was… oh my god. Fantastic!"_

_ "I __**told**__ you. You have to trust me on these things." He puts his hands on my shoulders. _

_ "Mhmm," I said dreamily, not quite able to focus on what was going on around me._

_ We didn't talk much after that. Dragging the bike onto the beach, we sat on the soft sand, our knees becoming red and sore from the grains against our skin. The ocean billowed against the shore, hissing as it did. Covelly was definitely the most perfect place on earth._

_ "I don't want to go," I groaned, squinting my eyes in the low sun. "I want to stay here forever."_

_ "Forever?"_

_ "Forever. Right on here on the beach."_

_ "You wouldn't miss your family?" he mused. His hands sifted through the sand, collecting what pebbles remained._

_ "Maybe Victoire and Albus. But I'd be okay. I have you with me. I have your mum and dad if I get really lonely."_

_ "You're happy?"_

_ "Blissfully," I sighed, turning my cheek against the sand to face him. His eyes, given to him by his mother, looked like his father's silver ones in the sun._

_ "You can come here for Christmas hols if you like. And we can keep your room as is. It can be yours. If you like."_

_ "But your father's company must be busy and I'll just be in the way. I couldn't ask for something like that."_

_ "My father is the one that asked me to offer this to you. He says he could use help around the workshop. New clocks and such," Scorpius told me, grinning._

_ My smile sagged. It was only for me to work._

_ "I don't want to come to work, Scorp! I could go to my own house for that!"_

_ He barked out a laugh and covered his eyes with a hand._

_ "Stupid. My dad doesn't say anything. __**Anything**__. Asking if you can come back over is his way of saying he really likes you."_

_ I sat up to watch the sun drop below the horizon. As the stars started to appear, growing more opaque with every time I looked away, I wondered how on earth I could leave a place so perfect. A person so perfect. Even with his imperfections. Even when he's insensitive and dense, when he gets defensive over stupid things. _

_ "Scorp, say aahhh."_

_ I held a raspberry in front of his mouth, waiting for his lips to steal it away from my fingers. They brushed the tips. He chewed, smiled, and grabbed one of his own._

_ "Your turn." He held it in front of me and I paused, looking past the berry and into his stare, my chest pounding hard, and my face warm. I leaned and opened my mouth slightly, lingering so he could place it on my tongue. He pulled it back, smirking. My brow furrowede and I leaned further, determined. Giggling, I pushed my face forward to bite it out of his hands. But I found that rather than having the sweet raspberry between my teeth, Scorpius' lips covered my own gently. His lips were very soft, and I could taste the fruit on them. Tart. Sweet. Kissing back, my stomach turned over itself and my head was light and all was flawless._

_ "Rose." His voice was raspy and quiet; his face was just a few inches from mine._

_ "Yes?" I asked breathily._

_ "We should probably get going."_

_ I agreed, forlorn, until he grabbed my hand and bent slightly to kiss my cheek._

_ I never thought going up a hill could be better than going down. But Scorpius took my hand all the way up, and though we didn't speak it didn't feel as if we needed to. As we reached the top, we let the bike drop to the side and I kissed him again, not truly caring if I was only twelve or if his mother saw us. I just wanted to be as close to him as possible. To feel him gasp in surprise at my attack._

_ We ran inside, up to his room, and his mouth crashed against mine, his hands in my hair, on my waist, and I relished every minute we had left together. It was tame, yes, but feelingful and alive and electric in its tameness. His bed was large and plush as we sat on it, our lips linked._

_ The door opened and we sprang apart, avoiding the others' eye. Mr. Malfoy stood in the doorway looking very cross, his posture stiff and straight. My face burned with what I imagined to be a deep, red blush. With a quick glance, I saw Scorpius was fairing no better._

_ "Scorpius, I suggest you straighten up," he said with a strained, chiding voice and nearly clenched teeth, "There is someone downstairs waiting for you."_

_ We stood and brushed our clothes straight, laughing lightly at being caught. He tucked a stray strand behind my shoulder before clenching my hand in his and leading me down to the parlor. As the room came into view when we walked down the stairs, I noticed an old man with a stance like steel framework, cold and firm. His hair was like Scorpius' and his father's, only longer and wrapped into a coil that reminded me vividly of a snake. _

_ "Who is that? Scorp?"_

_ "My grandfather. Lucius." His mouth was straight and thin and pressed tight. He held my hand in a vice grip._

_ I never thought Scorp could look tense._

_ But I had heard of Lucius Malfoy. Kindness and mercy were not among the traits used to refer to him._

_ "Scorpius Hyperion. You will stand straight when in my presence," the man scolded, his cane brandished at his side. "I hear that you got sorted into Ravenclaw… quite different from the family, would you not say?"_

_ "I didn't choose, grandfather."_

_ "Yes, but perhaps asking would have lead you down the proper path. Ah. I suppose you like your house and think it a decent place of decent people, yet still, child, there are those that, even with those of the sharpest wits, do not recognize the significance in heritage and blood."_

_ "Your reason for coming, grandfather?" The words almost sounded like a hiss as he spoke them. Not the boy I knew. My hand was beginning to hurt under his._

_ Lucius Malfoy narrowed his eyes and his hand drifted towards his wand._

_ "Simply to be informed of your studies. I am—" his eyes fell to me and he raised an eyebrow, almost as if he hadn't realized my presence earlier. "Scorpius Hyperion, who is this."_

_ "This is my friend."_

_ "And would I be mistaken in assuming she is a Weasley?" He demands quickly, the neutral aura dissipating into the very air of the parlor._

_ Fearful of Scorp's stress, I made the mistake of answering. "And a Granger, sir."_

_ "Did I address you, miss? No, I think not, so if you please. I asked my grandson a question."_

_ He didn't answer. He just stood, staring at the couch, frozen._

_ "What is her name?"_

"_Rose," he said hoarsely._

_ "Ah," Lucius spat, "firstborn of the Mudblood and the Bloodtraitor. How far we have sunk, our pride and status all gone, because __**YOU**__," he points towards Mr. Malfoy, saliva flying savagely from his mouth, "decided to wed a squalid halfblood! I thought the clocks were enough, but I assured myself, 'no, this is just a phase.' And then you muck around with a filthy excuse for a witch, and produce him, who is obviously NO DIFFERENT."_

_ I waited… and waited, for someone to say something. For Scorpius to whisper some sort of comfort or even soothe my now tearing eyes, but all were silent and focused on Malfoy Senior. And it is as if I only existed when spoken to._

_ Lucius lifted a stray strand of red hair away from my face, sneering._

_ "Utter dirt, Draco, really. And Scorpius, if you think I don't see your mussed clothes, not to mention her wrinkled attire, you have assumed far too much. Putting your lips to this. Couldn't you at least have Ninel clean her?"_

_ He leaned down to look me in the eye, and his orbs were so light it seemed like there were only his pupils glaring at me. A finger of his picked a tear off my face and examined it like it was too contaminated to touch other humans._

_ "You do not belong here, girl. Go to your splintered sty and cry there."_

_ His lip curled meanly and he spat on my face, almost laughing at the hurt and alarm in my expression._

_ "I should hope that this residence is in better condition when I return."_

_ And with a snap and a raised wand, he was gone. And Mr. Malfoy and Scorpius were still, silent, and avoiding my eyes. As if I truly was filth. Too low for them to talk to._

_ I waited, unable to cease my hysterics, for him to comfort me as he always has, as I thought he always would._

_ "Scorp?" I put a hand on his wrist._

_ Nothing happened. I was nothing more than a ghost to him._

_ "Accio dress."_

_ I grab the teal dress out of the air and stormed to the fireplace and threw some floo powder in, ignoring the first burning flames of the portal. _

_ "The Burrow," I choked, staring at Scorpius as he watched me leave, disappearing into that nauseous world of green. _

_ I pushed myself into my gate and marched up the stairs loudly, slamming open Victoire's door. She and Teddy sat on her bed, hands on the other, mouths locked, before ripping apart at the noise. I tried to block the far too recent memory of my very first kiss out of my mind at the sight._

_ "Ro, what—"_

_ "You can have your good for nothing dress back!" I screamed as I hurled the dress at her floor._

_ "Rosie, what happened," she pleaded, grabbing my shoulder, which I ripped away at the moment of contact._

_ "Don't touch me! Don't you __**dare**__ touch me!"_

_ Running from her bewildered face, I threw open the door to my cramped summer room and launched myself onto the bed, half screaming, half crying, as I tried to drain myself of every last memory of Scorpius Malfoy._

_

* * *

_

I told Albus first. Not about the kissing, but about his grandfather and his lack of reaction. At first he didn't believe me; Scorpius was nice to everyone. But as he sent letter after letter that faired no response, he began to see the truth in my words.

I decided to confront him at school, but realized that he was gone the minute we took our seats in the Great Hall. Of course at first I believed it was just a sickness or shame at seeing me. But it was soon very explicit that he wouldn't be at Hogwarts for his third year. So I kept him off my mind with endless Quidditch training and practice and games. But dreams of him would always surface; memories of our first and second year would always sneak back in.

The next year he began to finally fade. Bitter, yes, I was. But he was gone.

And now he's back. And back in my mind.

And no one really cares. Just like he was at his house, everyone is passive. Even Albus.

But I remember clear as day. And I will make that very, very clear to him.

* * *

_**Read and Review, please! :) **_


	4. Chapter 4

** I think last chapter went really well and had some ideas for the future, but I'm a bit stuck. I don't want this story to be utter fluff, which it is threatening to become. I want there to be **_**something**_** slightly darker, it doesn't have to be a dark story, just something a little less… sugary. And I also want to find a way to make Shawn less two-dimensional. So if you have any ideas, go ahead and post them in a review.**

** Major thanks to Hopey-dopey, my brainstormer, semi-beta, and bff .**

** Disclaimer: Nope! I don't!**

I know of families that pray for forgiveness, that have fallen so heavily into their own misery that others must pull them out by the thin strings they hang on by. I never know why they pray to a man who, if existent, has already condemned them. To them I give not sympathy, but pity. I pity their scars, their wounds; I pity their faces, so tangled with pain and guilt that they hide behind drawn curtains.

But the Malfoys, tainted as their family name was, always opened their windows and filled the house with so much light and wind. I wonder now if that house still smells like the sea.

I close my hand and it aches.

The sling is finally gone, as well as the bandages. Slowly, I stretch and flex my hand, just like Madame Feverfew told me I should, cringing a bit at the stiffness in my knuckles. Shawn grasps them in his tender hands and warms them, pressing his lips to my wrist softly. I let him.

James said I needed a few more days before getting on a broom. So I settle for sitting with Shawn in the common room and finishing my History of Magic homework. It's nighttime and I'm jittery, waiting for something new to happen. And as if on some eerie schedule, everything is too regular tonight. The clock ticks in perfect intervals and the fire refuses to spark. The chair never gets uncomfortable. My hand doesn't pause to let me think, because it's practically writing my essay for me.

Stupid as it sounds, I kind of miss being in the hospital wing. At least something there was different.

Finally, when I've had enough silence, I drop my pen and close my eyes.

I should be thinking of my boyfriend, of how lucky I am, of how he's perfect. But I'm not. Because in the long run, he's just not that high on the list of people that impress me. Most on that list are people in my family, but there are a few that have no relation to me. Hagrid. Oliver Wood. Professor McGonagall. Scorpius Malfoy used to be on that list but lost his place when he failed to face his cowardice. But Shawn could never be on that list. He never surprises me or makes me think, which is occasionally pleasant since there's nothing complicated, and he's never been anything more than happy or apologetic or embarrassed. And that's it. If it was a beauty contest I'm sure he would win, but that side of Shawn is hardly exciting anymore.

For a second my mind argues that Scorpius is much more to my taste than he is, but his voice interrupts me before I can finish that thought.

"I think we should talk."

"What about," I question.

His hands wring themselves together nervously as he stumbles over his words and he's almost incomprehensible. Looking him in the eyes, I see guilt in his face. Resting my hand on his shoulder, I encourage his to speak, my voice mimicking that with which one might use to coax a scared animal out of hiding.

"About… why does he have to… me? Why me?"

"Why you what? Who's he?"

"James," Shawn groans. "He asked me to talk to you about the Quidditch game."

Instinctively, I cringe at the memory. The blinding pain of the fall flashes in my mind.

"What of it?"

"Well," he begins, edging away from me, "he thought that if _I_ told you that you were off the team for the next month, instead of him telling you, that you might take it easier. Well, you have to heal, right?" He exclaims, watching me as my face grows hot. "That's the only reason. Your hand. That's all."

A fleeting kiss touches my forehead. His lips are cool and supple, smooth. My face relaxes, almost like he's drained the anger out of me. And for a minute, I feel radically, immeasurably safe.

"Thank you, by the way, for taking me to the hospital wing."

"Pardon?"

"When I fell. Thanks for bringing me to the infirmary."

"Don't thank me. I didn't get down until you already crashed." Shrugging, he leans back and continues his homework. "It was that blonde kid on the team. Thank him."

Confused, I turn to him. "We don't have any blondes on our team."

He shakes his head. "No, the one that was holding the place for Ravenclaw. Their new seeker. Don't know his name… something with an… N? Ah… never mind. I'll tell you one thing, though, Rosie. If anyone could be a match for you, it's him. Bloody fast. Crazy.

"The moment he saw you fall, well, the whole team was just, well… staring. Alright? Like in shock, but _he_ just… I mean he's _so damn fast_! Just dived! He almost caught you! If you hadn't turned he might have. I don't know whether to hate him or worship him."

And then, again, I feel that flash of scalding pain and then the cool damp feeling of evening-chilled hands on my face. And I remember that Scorpius' hands were always cold. "Bad circulation" he used to say.

"Malfoy," I scowl.

"Yes! That's it. Makes sense. His dad was a seeker too, not bad, I hear, must be why h–"

"Merlin! I don't want to hear anything about how bleedin' fast he is, alright?"

Shawn sighs and draws away from me, his arm slipping from my shoulder and folds with its twin against his chest. I rest my head on his knee, whispering a quiet "I'm sorry." His hand rests on my head and pets my curls softly, sighing heavily.

"I'm sure that you'll catch up to him once you get your flying legs back."

I shake my head. He doesn't understand. How could he? He doesn't even know. Al knows, James knows half. But I know everything and it crushes me, bit by bit. And with nowhere to go, it seeps into my life and crushes those around me.

"I'm taking a walk," I announce, standing up slowly. He stretches, ready to push himself up, but I place a hand on his shoulder. "Alone…?"

Shawn pauses for a second but eventually nods, almost looking resentful. Smiling sadly, I leans towards him in an apologetic kiss. With stabbing eyes, he looks at me solemnly and turns his face.

It feels like a rock has dropped in my stomach.

The words I want to say get caught in my throat, so I just stare at him for a while before walking slowly to the exit. I check back over my shoulder to see if he's watching me leave. He isn't.

At least things aren't simple anymore. But they don't excite me. It hurts seeing Malfoy again, just as it hurts to put my boyfriend under so much stress.

But hearing Shawn, of all people, reminding me of everything I loved and hated about Scorpius— _Malfoy_—, everything I missed about him, was too much to bear.

Sometimes I'll watch him, always glaring, so if he looks up he'll know how I feel. But other times, usually late, usually in the library, I'll watch him as he stands amongst the shelves and shelves of books, sifting casually through the fiction section, and remember how we loved to read together; how his father's office was lined with books held upright by clocks he never finished. Scorpius still holds books in the same way: turning the page from the middle. And when his fellow Ravenclaws whisper about his family, I feel both vindicated and furious at the same time.

But then I see the silver of his house pin, and those terrifying, cold eyes fill my head like the silence that filled the house after his grandfather's departure. And the bitterness returns.

I cough, rubbing my eyes, trying to get his image out of my head.

"What do you have to cry about, Weasley?" A thin voice asks, wavering.

I look around and realize for the first time, in spite of the chill, that I'm walking along the lakeside and Gilda Ipswitch is sitting on the ground, her smooth caramel skin painted blue in the low moon's light.

"I'm not crying," I say.

"You were rubbing your eyes."

"But I'm not crying." I take a seat next to her so she can have a closer look at my eyes.

She studies my face for a long time.

"No," she says finally, "but you want to."

"And you are," I point to her puffy, red eyes before she can turn away from me. "What's wrong?"

She rubs her hand along the water's edge and picks up a flat rock, palms it, then rotates it in between her fingers.

"Girls. Roommates, specifically. I walked in on them saying some things that were less than kind. _I_ was under the impression that my house was a home for the clever, but I suppose that drowning themselves in gossip is easier than learning anything about someone. People just– …just ramble on to people they've never talked to. Oh my god, I'm losing it! Mental! I'm so sorry, you must think I'm barking."

I shrug and laugh.

"I'm no stranger to stupid insults," I offer.

"It's not just the names, it's the gossip! Everyone knows who I am, but no one knows _me_."

Gilda's wrist flicks sharply, flinging the rock, spinning, into the blind depths of the lake. It skips, two, three, four times before sinking below the surface.

I'm quiet, because I've listened to (and believed) all the things said about this girl.

"I promise I won't judge you," I say cautiously. "Even though I've heard the rumors."

Gilda stares at me again, seemingly surprised by what I said, but smiles. "Thank you."

After spotting a nice looking rock, I reach for it and throw it in. It hits the surface with a soft plop and sinks.

"You have to toss it like a disc. Close to the surface, yeah?"

I try again; it skips once and then falls under the surface. But it's enough for me.

"So… what is true?" I ask, unable to quiet my curiosity. Thankfully, she chuckles. But it still feels heavy and I curse inwardly at my lack of tact.

"I slept with Arnold Church once while we were dating. And then Kiran Goldman. We weren't exactly together… but I liked him, but we got walked in on by a third year… and it just… well, spread. Kiran got scared by all the rumors, I think. We haven't spoken for a bit."

"How long is a bit?"

"Er… a few months?" Gilda shrugs. "All the talk scared him off. Once you get one rumor, other things leak and get blown out of proportion, all the gossip and such. Boredom. People get bored and it's easy to make things up."

Simultaneously, we breathe in the sharp, cold air. It's comforting, just as the lake always is and always has been. It's calm tonight, the surface glassy. The squid must be asleep, just like I should be. But talking to someone who doesn't seem to care about my last name feels energetic and fresh, and maybe, _maybe_, I can ignore the rules for once.

"You aren't like what I've heard, Weasley," Gilda states as another rock is trapped under her fingers.

"And what's am I like, according to _them_?"

"Uptight and snobby, mainly. Nothing too harsh. A little boring and studious, relying on your boyfriend's popularity."

"Not entirely inaccurate."

"Nothing is _entirely_ inaccurate. But there's more lie to it than there is truth. You aren't a snob, at least, well, not to me. And you like learning. That's _good_."

"That's _boring_," I correct her.

"Who cares? Shawn certainly doesn't seem to think so."

I groan into my arms. My boyfriend, my annoyingly perfect, gorgeous boyfriend, is not one of the things I want to talk about. If he wasn't so forgiving, I could, perhaps, make a mistake without feeling guilty. But even though I hurt him, I know when I talk to him next he'll be the one apologizing.

"Did you have a fight?"

"Not exactly," I mutter. "I don't think we fight."

"Don't fight?"

"No. Not really. I'm insensitive. I know I can be a frustrating person to be with. And he has a very different need of space than me. I need more of it than he does. But we never really argue, we're too different to argue successfully."

"That sounds nice."

"Maybe."

I stand, my footing unsure on the wet bank. I stare down at Gilda and realize that she has a very sweet face. Was it the rumors that made her eyes look so feline and her mouth so coy? Her eyes are wide and brown and her smile is kind, if not a little sad.

For some reason, when I looked at her, I saw myself.

"Would you like to partner for Magical Creatures?" she asks me, looking at her feet. "Sorry to bother. I don't have many… there aren't many that offer."

I nod. But I don't admit that I'm in the same boat.

"I have a question."

She waits, listening, and I continue.

"Why not just talk to Kiran?"

"For the same reason you don't talk to Scorpius."

"Pardon?" I cough, alarmed.

She shrugs but nods, looking at the lake.

"I see how you look at him. Angry, hurt… maybe a little caring. He did something you can't forgive. He notices too. He doesn't even look at you, maybe because of what happened. He notices."

"Do you know what he did?"

"No. But he _definitely_ knows," she chuckles darkly. "You and I, Rose, we're the same, you know. More or less. Minus the enormous family. But we have too much pride and we expect too much from others. …I think we're right to do so. Some things are just inexcusable."

"I think we should get over ourselves," I laugh, tucking my hair behind an ear.

"You think you might forgive him someday?" She asks, surprised.

I laugh again, walking up the first step towards the Hogwarts entrance.

"Never."


	5. Chapter 5

"Rose. Rose, get up. Oh for goodness sake… Rose, come _on_."

The bed lurches under me and I land on the floor with a dull _thud_, a little less than sore a little more than annoyed. Gilda sits in front of me, smirking over two pieces of toast.

"What… are you doing in my dormitory? …Or my house for that matter?"

"Easy, cheeky. Good morning to you as well. Got the password off of James. Thinks I fancy him."

"But _what are you doing_," I growl, pulling a blanket from the once-warm bed above me. "As in, what the fuck are you waking me up for at…" I reach for my wand and give it a flourish "…four thirty? Gilda, are you insane?"

Gilda shrugs and shoves a slice of toast into my mouth.

"We're celebrating, get up and follow," she says, grabbing a slice of her own before standing and yawning. "And ease off the edge. I had to get up earlier than you."

"And what exactly are we celebrating?"

"Your last day of freedom. You're on the team again tomorrow. And it's our one month anniversary as lovers."

"Worst lover ever," I say.

"Could you stop whining? Now can we please go before the teachers wake up?"

Muttering under my breath, I grab my coat off my bedpost and follow her. We sneak past the portrait hole, duck behind a suit of armor while Peeves floats by, run past the entrance twice (it's a miracle she knows where her classes are), and finally sprint onto the great lawn. Self-burning fires are nestled into jars, pushed tight to our chests, trying to beat away the early December cold.

"Sandwiches and firewhiskey."

"Foods of the gods," I laugh. "How'd you get it?"

"Nicked it."

"Not from a professor," I groan, yet still taking the cup she gives me.

"No, too risky. Got it from the Three Broomsticks. Madame Rosmerta is dim bint, isn't she?"

I raise the cup to my lips and clench my eyes shut as I sip the amber drink. It stings terribly and almost makes my eyes water. I love it. It reminds me of holiday parties at the Burrow. My stomach, then soon the rest of me, begins to warm as the firewhisky takes affect.

"Where are you going for winter hols?"

"No idea if I want to go home or stay here. Not sure if I want to do either," Gilda shrugs. She still hasn't told me why she hates going home. It's fair. I don't even know if I want to be told.

"I can ask my mum if you can stay with us, if you want."

"That would be nice. I'll think about it."

"I'll owl her…"

I don't know if anyone is exactly disapproving or surprised by my sudden friendship with Gilda, but it hasn't gone unnoticed. We've gotten a few curious stares, that is. After all, we aren't exactly two peas in a pod. But it works out. Being opposites helps us in most cases. Only she would think to celebrate one month of being friends.

I take another swig and begin to feel light headed. Elbows on the ground, I lean back to look at the sky, which is starting to lighten. This is the part of morning I hate. Sunrise. I've never known why I hate it, but I do. It feels intrusive. Like a lit wand pointed in your face or a loud noise when you're trying to study. I take another sip.

"Scorpius talks about you."

I sit up straight.

"What?" I cough, not quite believing what I've just heard.

"He's out in the common room a lot of the time. With friends usually."

"Yeah… okay, but what did he say?"

Gilda rolls her eyes and refills our cups. "For someone who claims to hate him, you're rather hung up on him."

"Hung up?"

"Yes, hung up, shall I give you a definition?" She smirks, throwing back her head to down the rest. Then she looks at me and her smirk vanishes. "He didn't say anything bad. He just counters things people say about you."

"Like?" I enquire, wiping the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand.

"He says you don't scream like a girl. And that you're the one who taught him how to fly."

"**Rosie, I **_**can't**_**."**

"**You **_**can**_**. Just close your eyes. Trust yourself. You can."**

**I watched as he closed his eyes and held the broom tighter in his shaking hands. Slowly, the broom began to rise, taking Scorpius with it. They went higher and higher, until he hovered above the snow-topped Burrow.**

"**Scorp, look!"**

"**No!"**

"**Just look!"**

**He laughed. **

"Rose!"

I look up sharply, noticing Gilda's annoyed scowl.

"Are you going to do this every time I mention him?"

"Do what?" I turn my head towards my sandwich.

"Stare off into space, have your eyes go blank. You're barmy, I swear."

She's right and I hate it. Even now, even after the anger and hate, he's still left a mark on me.

"It's just the firewhiskey making me batty. That's all."

But Gilda doesn't even have to call me out on it for me to know that she can see straight through my lies.

"You know," she says, sitting up slowly, "you could have told me you used to be friends. Not that it matters. But it was still a right shock to learn that you used to be mates, yeah?"

"It doesn't matter."

"But whatever it is-"

"I _said_ it doesn't matter and it doesn't. So drop it," I say harshly, silencing her. For good measure, I throw back the rest of the firewhiskey. It doesn't burn. It just goes straight down to my stomach, adding to the disorientation that has already started to churn. Guilt, along with the haze of inebriation, begins to dull my thoughts and all I can think of is how bad a friend I am. And how I almost ignore my boyfriend and think more about the boy I hate than the boy I like.

If I even still like him.

"Rose, maybe you should let up on the whiskey."

"No, I'm fine…" I assure her, keeping the cup out of her reach.

Gilda, giving up on trying to get me to put down the cup, lets me finish what I have ("Nothing left but to do but let you learn your lesson, I suppose.") and braids my hair. Obviously used to having straight, manageable hair, she separates the knots roughly and I hear and feel each strand pull against my scalp.

"Haha, that hurts," I giggle, swerving away dizzily.

"Mate, you are sloshed," she laughs, trying to get me to sit up.

"No I'm not. _You_'_re_ the one who's sloshed. You had seven cups… I just had… two."

"You mean four?" she says.

"I mean three… I mean four! But I'm _not_ sloshed, not like you."

Gilda sighs and pushes me so I sit. "Rose, you have the alcohol tolerance of a squib. At least I can walk."

Planting my hands firmly on the ground, I raise myself to stand, wobbling but triumphant. With hands on my hips, I say, "See? Walking! Don't even need any help from you."

"No help?"

"Nothing. I'm not sloshed."

"Cheerie-bye, then! Since you're so sober." Gilda, who is very light on her feet, skips around me, whistling. As I turn my head to ignore her, I see her running (surprisingly steadily) towards the castle. And it dawns on me that she might have been serious about me learning my lesson. So maybe I'm not as sober as I stated I was, since everything is sort of blurred and muted and soft, just like the lake after it rains. But it is sunrise on the lawn after drinking and eating sandwiches, and the time of day is my least favorite. And nothing makes any sense because it's all melted together.

"Gilda! …This isn't funny! …Where are you?"

I'm met with silence and nothing else. Shit.

I sit back down, a bit sore in the stomach. I feel my insides bubble and stir uncomfortably, almost scolding me for my silliness and lack of reserve. For trying to be the Rose Weasley I want to be rather than the Rose Weasley I am.

"Gilda," I whimper, "Where are you?"

More obvious than a ashwinder in winter, I realize that she isn't joking around and that she's left me, pissed drunk in the middle of the Great Lawn, with nothing to ease my turning thoughts and no wand.

Honestly, I feel like I would be laughing at myself, if, perchance, I was on the outside looking at myself stumbling miserably over my own feet. 'What a divvy,' I'd think, trying to hide my laughter.

Cor, I'm pathetic, pitying myself. Finally deciding to _stop_ pitying myself, I dig my hands into to ground and hoist myself up, tripping once, but eventually managing to stand. I take a step and the ground falls away from my feet and I'm once again facedown.

So _this_ is why dad recommended I stick to muggle drinks, I realize as I sit up, holding my forehead in my hands. Through my fingers, I see a hand. Open, slightly large and rather calloused. Extended, as if to offer assistance.

But as I look up, I blanch, recoiling, and I feel ever more humiliated.

I used to know the way Scorpius' hands looked. But I suppose that was before he vanished. They used to be soft and careful and pleasantly cool. But I can see now that they're rough from quidditch. Mine would be the same if I didn't make a point of healing them every night.

"At least let me help you stand, Rose."

"Bugger off, Malfoy," I spit, uttering the first sober syllables I have in an hour.

"So I'm Malfoy now?"

I nod, avoiding his eye.

I stand abruptly and turn, misjudging my shaky standing. Yet his hand attaches itself to my shoulder and he steadies me before I slip. The sudden halt makes my stomach lurch and my mouth gasp. My gut churns rapidly.

"Please," he says, gravelly, hardly even asking.

Scorpius turns me to face him and for a second my resolve wavers. Though his jaw has hardened into angles and his face has lengthened, I still see that thirteen-year-old underneath it, ever worried, ever caring. And it frightens me terribly.

Yet I nod, allowing him to hold my waist and walk me along the lawn to the castle. We don't speak. Partly because I'm too embarrassed by my current situation to say something devastating and witty. But he doesn't comment on how 'fucking plastered' I am or how I can't seem to walk straight. He just stays quiet and helps me walk up the stairs to the castle.

"Okay," I say, trying to put a healthy distance between us, "I can make it from here."

"No."

"I'm fine."

"You aren't."

"I said I'm fine, Malfoy!"

The door to the Great Hall opens with a giant screech and we both turn around. I teeter slightly, but he keeps a steady hand on my shoulder.

Headmistress McGonagall, looking even more wrinkled and surly than usual, has one hand on the large door, disapproval sinking into every crevice of her elderly skin. Shoulders forward and arms crossed, she stares at us, eyes flitting from one to the other.

"Well?" She asks, her long fingers drumming against her arm. "I expect you'll explain."

I avert my eyes and keep quiet, afraid that she might realize my drunkenness with the first word I spoke.

"I was just taking Rose to her dorm, professor," Scorpius explains. I hold my breath and stare at his shoes, hoping that my moment of shame will pass quickly. At least, in the end, I'll have one more thing to hold against him. One more thing making this all easier. "She hit her head rather hard. She's a bit disoriented, I'm afraid."

What?

"Oh?" McGonagall questions, a bit surprised. "I was under the impression that you quite disliked one another, after you left."

"I'm sure Rose agrees with you. And I'm sure _you_ agree with me; not offering help to those that need help is wrong. Right?"

McGonagall almost smiles, but I'm positive her smile is so rusty and suppressed that it doesn't fully function.

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy. I suppose that I do at that. Carry on. I trust both of you enough not to inquire as to what you are doing up so early."

We wait for her to leave before we move again. Yet even after the doors squeal shut, I keep my eyes glued to the floor. Maybe I feel a bit defeated, as if his protection of me was somehow disappointing.

My pride more important to me than my balance, I step away from Scorpius. He lets me. But he stays one step behind me, constantly securing my balance with a gentle hand on my elbow or waist.

"I don't feel well," I murmur, blinking slowly.

"Do you need the loo?"

"Screw off, Malfoy."

"That's a yes then."

So he walks me to the loo and holds my hair as I wretch into the toilet, his other had rubbing the back of my neck.

He's quiet. Which I simultaneously hate and am thankful for.

Because I wish he would judge me. Because I wish I had more reasons for hating him. Because he isn't criticizing me. Anyone else would… but he's just being here and I'm just letting him.

My stomach constricts again and more follows. It's gross. The stall smells rank and the floor is slightly damp; the windows are so old that they let in more wind than they keep out.

Sunlight streams in, signaling the sun's breach of the horizon.

His hand remains. Just rubbing my neck.

"Why are you doing this, Malfoy?"

"Doing what?"

I turn and sit on the cold floor, wiping the sweat from my brow.

"Interacting."

"With you?"

"Are you talking to anyone else right now?"

He doesn't respond.

"Can you answer?" I ask, with a bit of a bite.

"Because you needed help," he responds.

"Next time, don't. Just walk by."

"Is that really what you want?" He stares at me straight for the first time.

It's my turn to be answerless.


	6. Chapter 6

**Holy crap, guys. Eight reviews on one chapter? Thank you so much! This story hasn't gotten that many reviews, but each and every one has been so thoughtful and helpful, so I honestly am honored by what I have been given. I really am incredibly humbled. I'll really try to have more regular updates. Love you all!**

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_**Hugo,**_

_**It's good to hear from you again. Mum's been worried. Not that I'm chastising you… I know how you hate that. But, owl mum. Or floo her if you can. Merlin knows how much she's written me, it's **__**terrible**__**. So act like the good son you are and let her know you're alive (she's convinced that you aren't). Like I said, not chastising!**_

_**I'm glad you're having such a good time at Durmstrang. Mind you, I was a bit nervous when I learned about the Dark Arts classes. But I suppose you're right; If you want to be an Auror, it's better to prepare and know what to protect yourself against. And now that they've lifted their ban against muggle-borns on campus, I'm a little less scared. And it's only one year, right? By fourth year you'll be back, and I'm sure the girls in your year will be highly impressed with your gained language skills. Girls love that.**_

_**For added sex appeal, you can claim that you've developed an accent and carry it through the entire year.**_

_**I'm so excited to see you at the Burrow. Gran Molly promised that this year would be far better than the others, which is really saying something, isn't it?**_

_**Anywho, about what you wrote to me about in the first place. I understand why you didn't go to mum about this. Having a girlfriend is something she would just love to give all the wrong sorts of advice on. And Dad, well… he would the mickey out of you, wouldn't he? Listen, you're not going to be fourteen until February. And "romance" at thirteen can hardly be called romance at all. You basically say you're going out but hardly look at or talk to the other. I think it's sweet that you didn't want to turn her down, and believe it or not, I **__**do**__** think you did the right thing by agreeing to go out with her. And by what you wrote last, it sounds as if she's nice and pretty and relatively popular. Don't worry so much! Even if you're not sure you have intense feelings for her, you like her as a person. So if it doesn't work out, you two will still be friends afterwards. **_

_**But… if you want to impress her…**_

_**Girls aren't complicated. We're shallow and like pretty things. The shinier, the better. The more stereotypical, the better. **_

_**As for me, things couldn't be more difficult (DON'T YOU DARE TELL MUM). Work is piling up like mad, not to mention all the practice O.W.L.'s I've been taking. My sodding boyfriend is a religious virgin that is too afraid to be deflowered to kiss me. I only just got back my flying privileges, and I'm rusty as hell.**_

_**But something's far worse. **__**Far**__** worse. Scorpius Malfoy is back at school. Sorry for not telling you earlier, things have been stressful. I can't bring myself to call him anything other than his last name, after what he did. But everyone else seems to have gotten over this so quickly. Am I really the only one who still cares? **_

_**What do I do, Hugo? I need your wisdom. Har har.**_

_**Love forever, your (perfectly darling) sister,**_

_**Rosie**_

I lay the quill on the table and blow the ink dry. It's been a while since Hugo's last letter, so I'm naturally eager to hear of his travels. He's taking a year to study at the Durmstrang Institute, which focuses on the Dark Arts. He wants to be an Auror, which gives mum a heart attack. After what she went through, I'm not surprised.

Secretly, I'm a little bit worried too.

I grab a ribbon and wind it around the roll of parchment, wrestle on my thick winter jacket, and begin the walk to the owlery, dreading the journey ahead of me.

Overnight, while the students and staff of Hogwarts were all tucked into their respective beds, snow started to cover the grounds in thick, heavy drifts. By time morning reared its head, the snow had covered the entire school and the rest of the campus, so the minute you set foot outside, you where knee deep in white.

What this means for me is having to make the trip between the owlery while somehow retaining feeling in my limbs.

Indeed, as I step outside, my foot sinks clumsily into the coldness and nearly swallows me whole. It's far deeper than I thought. Far too dangerous for my freshly drafted letter. It gets tucked jut under the collar of the sweater underneath the jacket.

Yet despite the wet mess that are now my boots, the stinging numbness and face-burning wind, winter, _snow_ in particular, is one of the things I love more than anything. Winter means snowball fights and Quidditch practices that turn into snowball fights. It means building charmed snow sculptures and lying face-up on the ground, the snow below me soaking through my hair and the flakes above settling onto my eyebrows. With the season comes gift buying and gift giving, gift opening and gift loving. And I can never seem to be in a bad mood when I think about Gran Molly's Christmas feast.

Merlin, how much do I want the term to end. Already, the imaginary scents of pear tart and roast beef makes my mouth water.

More than anything else, winter means family. I head home on the Express, crammed into one over-packed compartment filled with all my cousins, their friends, my friends and spend the entire time laughing. Laughing over hands stung by exploding snap and Zonko's special effect candies. Then, it's off to the Burrow for the feast and then to home for the rest of the holiday.

Over the holiday, I'll have seen over twenty family members and another twenty others. And though it's loud and stressful and overwhelming, I know it wouldn't be my family, it wouldn't be _home_, without it.

Weasleys take to noise like a hippogriff takes to the sky.

The smell of the burrow disappears as my foot hits something solid. Looking up, I squint as the owls soar overhead, flapping their wings heavily against the falling snow.

I try to stay steady as I climb up the tower, which is already steep without the added slip of the snow. The smell of owl dung and wet stone hits me as I enter, and though the smell isn't as awful as one would think, it still makes me wrinkle my nose.

Lucy, my barn owl, swoops down to greet me, her large wings fanning back my hair. I break apart a stale Cauldron Cake and offer it to her. Tinier crumbs fall from her beak as she nips at it eagerly.

"Rose! Hi!"

I turn my head and smile as Leah Franks walks into the room, her own roll of parchment in hand. Pats of shiny red cover her nose and cheeks.

"Hullo, Leah. Alright?"

"Yeah, quite well, thanks."

"That's good."

Silence falls quickly. Not the kind I like. The kind nobody does.

We both focus on our respective owls, hers a large snowy male that hooted and puffed himself up, flapping his wings; his unblinking eyes are fixed, as if glued, on Lucy.

"It seems your owl likes my Lucy," I say, amused.

"What's that Hamish?" She rubbed the top of Hamish's head and grinned and he continued to rustle up his feathers. "She's a right bit young for you, mate."

"Your owl is old?"

"In a manner of speaking. He's like a cranky grandma, he is. Always snapping at younger birds. No pun intended."

Lucy picks away the last crumb of cake and quickly begins to clean herself, head under wing. Hamish looks slightly indignant.

"My owl isn't very social, I fear," I say, almost apologetically, though whether this is directed towards Leah or her owl I'm not sure, "she prefers human contact. Hamish is beautiful. Is he a pedigree owl?"

Leah shakes her head sadly. "We adopted him as a chick. Nest fell out of the tree and the mother left 'im. So we took him in last summer." She paused and stroked a white wing. "He's a good owl. Yours?"

"No pedigree, but she's loyal as they come," I say, quite proud of my own pet. "Lucy isn't good with her own kind, but she's very affectionate with most humans. Fast too. Never have to wait much. Lucy, don't you want to say hello?"

But it looks as if she wants to do anything _but _say hello. She hoots loudly, as if express a complete and utter dislike of Hamish.

Leah laughs and comforts her owl, who is looking rather put out.

I pull the letter out from my collar and tie it to Lucy's leg with a pink ribbon.

"Can I borrow one?"

"Sorry?"

"Can I borrow a ribbon," she asks. "I haven't brought one."

"One moment," I mutter, rummaging through my coat pocket. After several seconds of fishing, I hand her a ribbon.

Chuckling, Leah looks from me to the ribbon and quickly back to me.

A fleeting thought of worry rushes through my mind.

"What is it?" I ask, nervous.

"I wouldn't have pegged you for a pink person," she says as she ties the letter to Hamish, who still looks highly offended.

"Pardon?"

"I mean, I'd have thought you would use a red ribbon or green. They just seem to fit you."

"The… ribbon color… Sorry, I'm not sure I understand."

Waving away the comment with a long, feminine hand, she just laughs. "Nevermind. It was stupid. I just think a person's favorite color always says something about them."

"I think you've been putting a little too much effort into your divination, Leah." For one quick second I'm scared she won't laugh, but she does.

Silence falls again, different this time. It isn't heavy or dense. It's just a lack of noise, rather than a lack of conversation. Sort of like the silence at the back of the library. I hold out my arm and Lucy hops onto it, then flies out the window before I even finish saying "Hugo."

A small layer of worry is lifted as I see my owl rocket up into the snowy sky. Knowing that Hugo will have some connection to home is a relief.

Hogwarts is strange without him.

Leah's owl flies out the window, the wind off its wings combing through my curls.

"Rose?"

"Yeah?" I stare after her owl as it disappears against the grey of the sky.

"Could I ask a favor of you?"

"Yeah."

She fidgets nervously, tucking her hair behind her ear several times over. "Um. Astronomy. Help me. I mean, …could you please tutor me in astronomy? I'm bordering on getting a Troll, I really am; I wouldn't be asking otherwise! I know you're super busy with—"

"Sure."

Leah coughs lightly mid-word. Looking slightly stunned, she begins to grin. Her smile is huge and endearing, and I feel very humbled that my accepting would earn me such a winning look.

"Really?"

"Yeah, no problem at all. I'm not that busy as long as we work after practice."

"Oh, thank Merlin," she says, letting out a long exhale. "So can we work on Mondays?"

Nodding, I pull my jacket closed. The air is so cold that it's seeping through my boots. A shiver runs up and down my spine and my hair stands on end under my coat.

Leah presses her lips together. I wonder if it's trying to suppress a laugh. "Shall we head back to the common room? It's right cold, innit?"

Agreeing quickly, I put one foot in front of the other, and once again trudge out into the snow.

* * *

Perhaps I've made a mistake. But she deserves it, doesn't she?

"Mate, _please_, I was only codding you! I went back for you but you were gone."

"Yeah?" I ask, grinding my newt scale vigorously, teeth clenched, "was this before or after thirty minutes had passed?"

"I didn't think you were actually _that_ trashed."

"So, what, did you think I was begging for attention? Or that I was pretending?"

"_No_," Gilda says under her breath, looking nervously at Professor Higgins. "I just didn't think you as drunk as you were."

"I couldn't walk!"

"I said I'm sorry, Rose. I don't know what more I can offer."

"How about you acknowledge the fact that you were a shit friend for leaving me alone while pissed drunk?"

"Ugh, I'm so sick of this," she says. "It's been a week and I've said sorry every single time that I've seen you. You're just looking for someone to be fucking angry at!"

My hand grips the pestle tightly, which twinges a bit from being inactive for so long. I wish I had the bollocks to hex her on the spot. What right does she have to say such a lie?

"That's a lie and you know it! You damn well know it. You haven't said one thing of an apology about it till this morning, just been making jokes."

Gilda opens her mouth to retort, but is interrupted by Professor Higgins telling us to get into pairs.

We stare at one another for a while, caught in a stalemate neither of us want to lose.

"Girls?" Professor Higgins asks, his small owl asleep on his shoulder. "Are you two going to start working then?"

Gilda is quick to respond. "No, sir, I'm working with Albus," she says, casting me a glance before pulling a very surprised Albus to the back of the room.

'That little tramp,' I think to myself, knowing very well how deliberately sly that was. She _knows_ that Albus is _my_ go-to backup partner.

Well, at least Albus gets a hot partner, which is rare for him. So I'm sure _he's_ thrilled.

"In that case, Miss Weasley, please join Mister Malfoy," Professor Higgins smiles.

"Excuse me?"

"Miss Ipswich chose Mister Potter as her partner, and since only he and Mister Malfoy are left… you see where I'm going. So, if you would…"

I shoot an angry glare at Gilda as I grudgingly pile my mortar, pestle, and vials of ingredients into my arms and walk as slowly as I can towards the seat next to Scorpius Malfoy.

I sit on the edge of the chair, as far from him as I can sit, almost as if he's a Blast-Ended-Skrewt ready to blow.

As if reading my mind, he says, "I'm not diseased, you know," so quietly that it's almost impossible to hear. I steal a quick glance at him as I set my vials in a line on the table. His brow is pressing down into his eyes and his lips are a thin pink line. If you looked, you would most likely see him as angry. But he isn't. And only I could see this.

Because whether I want to or not, I know him like I know my own wand.

And Scorpius Malfoy is hurt.

I silently chop up my pickled rat foot, making sure not to cut my fingers or look him in the eye. I gather the slices in my hand, ready to add them to the potion, when he places his hand over mine, stopping me.

I look up, but I don't dare look at his eyes.

"Rat foot goes after stirring, not before."

"Sorry." I stir the potion quietly, then return to cutting.

The hair on my neck begins to tickle; he's watching me.

I look over my shoulder and accidentally lock eyes with Gilda. Startled (and little bit embarrassed), I turn quickly. Then it hits me. This was all her planning, she could have just as easily chosen Malfoy as a partner, she could have said sorry and worked with me instead, she could have done any number of things, but instead she condemned me to working with the one person it hurts me to be around.

"Rose? What's that matter?" Malfoy asks.

"Nothing. Never better," I grumble.

"I'm not stupid."

"Sorry?" I ask lazily, now adding the chopped rat foot piece by piece.

"Did something happen with Gilda? I know you two are close."

"Were. _Were_ close."

"What did she do?"

"Nothing you don't know about," I murmur, blushing.

He understands quickly.

"Is that why you were…?"

"Yes."

"Yeah, it didn't really seem like a _you_ thing to do, to be honest," he says with a forced laugh. It's hard not to hear the upset laced into it.

"I can _be_ whoever I want to be, Malfoy" I hiss, irritated at his concern.

"I didn't peg you for someone who wanted to be miserable and confused, but hey, what do I know. I'm obviously out of touch."

"That's understandable. You _have_ been gone for a bit."

He narrows his eyes and stirs the potion, which bubbles madly. I swallow hard.

"Funny, the Rose I used to know was more interested in being herself than she was in trying to fit in."

My knife clatters to the floor as it falls from my hand.

He's right. And wrong. He knows everything about me, but knows nothing at the same time. And I want nothing more than to turn things back to how they were, but I know I could never do that because of how much he has hurt me. Because of how much I have changed.

I hate all these contradictions.

"The Rose you used to know isn't me, Malfoy."

"Bullshit. Yes she is. You're just bleedin' afraid of her."

"Yes, because you've obviously taken the time to talk to me, haven't you?" I say quietly, ever aware of Gilda staring at me. I don't want her to see me talking to him.

He stops stirring and turns to me.

Malfoy's eyes are glaring so intensely that it almost seems as if they're closed.

"Well, you haven't exactly given me a chance to do so."

"And _you_ haven't exactly been aggressive in trying to get that chance."

"What do you wan-"

"I don't want anything from you, Malfoy."

It's ironic how quiet we are. Even with the class hushed and focused as it is, we haven't gotten any looks. But we're both screaming. The volume's smothered under a blanket of caution, yet under it, you can hardly hear any syllables. It's all anger, melted into one crucible.

And I want, _we_ want, to yell at the other at the top of our lungs. We want to finish out of breath and words and insults, hurt and be hurt, and laugh once it all passes.

But I don't want anything from him, right?

Malfoy drops a few beetles into the brew. It froths, a rank lilac mist falling over the rim.

"You aren't the only person here. You aren't the only one upset. You're selfish for thinking so," he says, waving the steam away.

"I'm not doing this Malfoy. I'm not the one at fault. I've made decisions about how I want people to see me. So you can't show up and lecture me just because you caught me in a bad situation."

"That isn't what I'm saying. I just don't want to be fighting constantly. I want to be…"

"Friends?" I ask hesitantly.

"Sort of."

"Sort of?"

"………."

I sit silently. It's almost as if I've lost. After I saw him return, while taking notes in Hagrid's breezy hut, I promised myself that I would continue to live as I had been since I learned to cope without him. But now I'm getting wound back in.

"I never thanked you for… that morning," I rasp in a whisper.

The corners of lips turn up slightly towards he ceiling.

"You're welcome."

Scorpius Malfoy is happy.


	7. Chapter 7

**Sorry if this one is a little short, guys. I swear that it's good, though. And I promise the next one will be fat and long (teehee, that's what she said). **

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"Okay, you got that… Okay, lets try another one. Er… _this one_," I say, pointing to question in the schoolbook. "Try this one."

"In which celestial hemisphere does crux lie…" Leah reads over the question once more and bites the end of the quill in thought. "Hint?"

"It can only be one of two," I say, reminding her.

She pauses for a few moments, takes out a pack of sugar quills, and begins to suck on one.

"Northern!" She exclaims suddenly, looking at me for approval. I smile apologetically and shake my head.

"No, afraid not. Remember: we have Polaris, which is our polar star. The southern hemisphere has no polar star, so it has a constellation, Crux, to mark the highest point instead."

"I'm such an idiot. I'm no good at this, not at all! You don't have to help me any further… really."

I pull the textbook closer and take a sugar quill for myself.

"No, we'll work so you get it. Giving up wont help your grade. You're already doing much better! You've gotten four of the last six questions before this right. Right?"

Smiling, she nods once and pulls the book towards herself. Her hand taps quietly as she studies. It's impressive, really, how easily she is reassured. I assume it's because Leah is already self-assured and confident, but not so much so that she has no doubts.

She closes the book.

"Okay. Try me again. I'll get it right this time."

"Great. I'm going to give you three questions and if you get them all right… hmm, well, then I'll buy you a cauldron cake and some peppermint humbugs. But only if you get them _all_ right."

"Rose Weasley, are you _bribing_ me?" She laughs.

"Methods help!"

"Really, you should be sent to Azkaban for being a bad influence. Who would have thunk it."

"_First question_...What is aphelion."

"The farthest distance the earth will ever be in our orbit from the sun in. Shouldn't I be working hard for those sweets?"

Grabbing the packet of sugar quills tightly, I throw them into the chair across the table.

"That was for cheek," I say, pointing a reprimanding finger at her. "Cetus is in which hemisphere?"

"Southern."

"And Leo?"

"Northern.

As I stay silent, her face falls.

"Leo is just below the celestial equator. Southern again. We can meet again next Monday. And you'll get it. You're already _getting_ it."

She nods, looking slightly crestfallen, and begins to pack her bag. Book by book, the table gets cleared, until one would hardly know that we had been here.

"You're doing good. Don't think so much. You know it. You just need to drill it," I assure her, smiling.

"Really?"

"Stupid thing to lie about. But yes. Really. So, you'll remember my payment?"

Leah rolls her eyes. "You've asked me three times. Yes. I will be your potions partner. And even if you weren't tutoring me, I wouldn't leave you to work with that tramp. She's the worst there is."

I shake my head, smiling, even though I feel rotten when I remember that we still aren't talking.

"Gilda really isn't the type of person everyone thinks she is."

"Even though she's been acting so ghastly towards you?"

"The reason behind it is complicated."

"You've done something to her?"

"…Not exactly," I say, scratching my neck as I hold the library door open for Leah. "Honestly, she did something to me."

"Then you forgive her for whatever she's done?"

"No, not really. But she still isn't who everyone thinks she is. No one really gives her a chance."

She ruffles a scoop of blonde hair in her hand. Every strand places itself into a perfect messiness. "I don't trust her. Rumors have truth to them."

"I still don't like hearing her being talked about."

I shouldn't care, after she's left me alone while I'm drunk, after her snooty silence, but she's still my friend.

So I can't help but care.

"Fine, I get it. Okay, astronomy, done; potions, partners. Yes?" Leah asks.

I raise my thumbs and grin wide.

"Perfect. See you in the morning, Starkid."

"Right-o, Moonshoes."

With a small smile to myself and a wave goodbye to her, I climb the stairs towards my dormitory and my bed.

* * *

_Tip_

_ Tap-tap, ta-tap_

_ Tip_

I lazily open my eyes, and my dream drains out of them as soon as the candlelight rushes in. I try to draw it back into my mind, try to remember, but it's gone.

I used to remember my dreams.

_Tip_

There it is again. I listen for it once more, too soon from sleep to search.

_Tap-ta- tip_

Finally, my ears find it for me. I look over at the window and smile. Shawn, looking much like an oversized, black marshmallow in his muggle down jacket, hovers outside the window, grinning over his scarf.

Running over quickly, I unlatch the window and pull it open, wincing as the wind and snow and cold stampedes in.

"Are you mad?" I ask, laughing quietly, afraid to wake my dorm mates.

"Absolutely barking, when it comes to you."

I cringe at the line, then it registered that he was being completely serious.

"Hop on," he says, standing on the windowsill.

"Turn around, I have to get dressed."

I change quickly. A pair of jeans and my winter coat. A scarf and some gloves. Almost immediately after I stuff my feet into a pair of shoes, I clamber onto my writing desk, get on the broom and wrap my arms around his waist.

The flatness of the desk and the warmth of the room vanish as I feel the weightless rush of flying. Grains of snow graze my face as we fly over the school.

Shawn is a beautiful flyer. I can hardly feel the broom, he's so graceful. He's as careful in the air as he is on the ground.

The broom slows as we near the astronomy tower. I feel the weight come back, sitting heavy in my stomach.

We sit on the stony floor. It's chilly on my legs; it feels uncomfortable, that feeling of being unable to determine whether the stone is wet or simply just cold. Shawn's body is warm and sturdy, and I can feel his strong arms, even through the down jackets. One would think this would provide some comfort, but it's just bland.

There's a barrier in place that is thick as our coats.

"What's wrong with your essay? I ask, staring at the clouds.

"How did you know?" He asks, grinning, looking at me as if I'm the sun after the storm.

"Because I know you," I say softly, with a tiny smile. I whisper a warming charm.

"Yes, well it's easy for you, isn't it? I'm just Shawn. But I still don't get you, Rose Weasley. You," he pokes my forehead, "are still a mystery."

"How so?"

I push myself deeper into his arms. The air escapes from my jacket with a hiss.

He looks up and his eyes are thinking. I cast a warming spell on us and remove my jacket.

"You- … you don't have patterns. You're different from your cousins…"

"Keep going," I laugh, quickly forgetting my discomfort upon hearing that I'm different from my family.

"Alright, er, you're not afraid, or ashamed, or being smart. You're unapologetic of being yourself. You're the most Gryffindor-ish Gryffindor I've ever met."

"Oh, am I?" I ask coyly, turning around to face him.

"Yeah." He kisses me. As soon as our lips touch, he begins to draw away. I stop him; I put my hand on his jaw and pull him back, deeper, into the frustrated kiss. The world doesn't fade. The cold doesn't become warm, but a heat churns in my stomach and I finally feel something.

It's difficult to tell whether he's resisting or not, but for a moment, for _this_ moment, I don't care because I'm at last experiencing something more than the baseline.

He returns the gesture; I feel victorious, just like I've won a game. His mouth curls against mine, his teeth scraping against my bottom lip. It's frighteningly good, almost wrong, almost perfect, falling somewhere between the two.

His tongue flits against my upper lip. Surprised yet pleased, I open my mouth a bit wider, glad to have finally tempted him.

What am I saying?

I'm his girlfriend. I'm his (kind of) supporting, loving girlfriend, yet I'm leading him towards the path that he morally cannot tread.

But I don't stop him, because I've been dying to tread this path for far too long and Shawn is far too good a kisser to let go of.

He groans as we sit in the cold, unaware of almost everything. Hand pressing against my side, he lifts up the hem of my shirt, his cold fingers touch my back. It goes higher, higher, and then I see what he's doing, so I reach behind me an expertly grapple with the clasp of my bra.

Only when it unhooks, he tears away quickly.

"_No_, Rose," he says, his voice oddly strained. "Just… no."

"Why?" I ask flatly, crossing my arms.

"_Why_? You know _why_. I told you. You said you were okay with it."

"Well, that was before I knew you were going to refuse me in every way possible."

"What?"

"That's right," I grumble, "every time I've tried to get close to you, what happens? You retreat. Every time! I'm tired of that."

He recasts the warming charm wordlessly, then says, "You know I can't to _that_ with you."

"Can't? You can't? Can't what? Have sex? Is that it?"

"It would be against what I believe, what my family believes!"

"I am so fed _up_ with this! Do you have any idea what it is like? What it is _like_ having a boyfriend that is afraid to fucking _touch_ you? That refuses to kiss you, all because he's too scared of having his virginity stolen to kiss you? It's humiliating. I'm comfortable with you like I am with no one else. Nothing is ever difficult with you, which is rare for me in my life. I want to give you something no one else can have, but you just throw it in my face because of some unrealistic pact you made."

I breathe out, gasping slightly from my rant.

And I gulp as I realize that I've just called Shawn's religion an unrealistic pact.

"I'm sorry," I say quietly. "It's just frustrating. It's awkward feeling ready for something like this but not being able to do anything."

"I can't help how I was raised, Rosie. I wish I could sometimes. I wish I could right now. But-"

"It isn't a sin," I say, rubbing his shoulder.

"Yes it is! I've been raised following certain rules. Sex before marriage is a no. A big no."

"Sex is not a sin. Isn't it supposed to be beautiful? It's what creates life! Why would…," I stumble over my words, feeling a bit silly talking about 'God' as if I believe in him. "Why would God make something that precious a sin?"

"People abuse it! People overindulge when they are tempted. I don't want to be one of those people. I don't want to do that to you."

Sighing, I take his hand in mine and let it drop onto the stone floor. My bra hangs awkwardly on my shoulders, still unclasped.

"…We aren't people. We're just you and me. Right? Rose and Shawn? We've been taking it slow till now, no reason we can't take it slow after as well," I say, not quite sure why I'm fighting so hard for this.

"Rosie, I-… you know I can't. I-"

"I'm sorry, I know, I just… I dunno. I don't know! It's confusing. Way too confusing. I won't do this again. I promise."

I make to stand up, but he grabs me tight to his chest, his powerful arms wrapping around me, warm and firm.

"You really want this that much?" he asks, hoarse.

The smell of his skin fills my nose and I hesitate.

Finally, I nod. Shawn pales ever so slightly, and then he does something I never would have expected from.

His mouth touched my neck, hot, luring goosebumps out of my skin.

"Do you know the contraceptive spell?"

Again, I nod.

But the victory isn't there.


	8. Chapter 8 Christmas: Part I

**Hai, gaiz! (lawl). As always, I'm incredibly grateful and humbled by what you guys are saying in the reviews. Each and every one is thoughtful and lengthy, and the ones that aren't are saying so much more than "good story". So thank you. **

**This chapter was originally supposed to be longer, but things took a slightly different turn than what I was planning. If I had continued with what I planned, there would be too much happeing. So, while this chapter is a bit longer than the average one for this story, you still have to wait for the next big reveal.**

**IMPORTANT IMPORTANT: Please read the author's notes at the bottom. Really. Do it.**

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"Honey, wake up. Breakfast is on the table; it's your favorite."

Something light tickles my cheek. I blink slowly and my eyes focus. Mum's sitting on my bed, a gentle hand on the side of my face. She smiles kindly as we meet one another's eyes.

"Morning, sleepy. Welcome home."

"What's happening, what's wrong? Why am I home?"

"You usually _like_ coming home for vacation."

"Vacation?" I ask, my mind still a bit sluggish.

She pets my hair and brushes the stray curls out of my face.

"You were so tired when you came off the train, I'm not surprised you forgot while asleep. You almost collapsed on your father. "

Sitting up straight, my eyes flit back and forth, scanning, searching for anything that seems out of place. I rub my eyes and try to remember.

* * *

_"__**Yes**__, James. I know. I understand."_

_ "Do you?"_

_ "Yeah, I do. I've practiced all that you've asked me to and more. Way more. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have friends to sit with," I said, making a move to march down the train corridor._

_ "Oh, no," James said, following me, "we have plays to discuss."_

_ "Since when am I the co-captain? Isn't that the job of McMillan?"_

_ "Kenneth is a great player, and yeah, he's a good co-captain. But he's there to make sure nobody quits once I set them straight."_

_ "You mean yell at them," I said, bluntly correcting him._

_The train gave of a shill scream, alerting people that departure was in fifteen minutes. I jumped slightly._

"_I prefer to call it inspiring them."_

"_Only because they want to prove you wrong!"_

"_Still works, doesn't it? Now. I was thinking about you utilizing that feint of yours. I know that last time you crashed, which set us back a good bit," he rambled, ignoring the glares I sent him as he mentioned my accident so easily. "But I honestly think that we can increase your speed with ease. I got the idea from a magazine for fat muggles."_

"_Oh, how very charming," I said, rolling my eyes. _

_James, Albus, and Lily were brought up much differently than I was. Though Uncle Harry had lived as and believed himself to be a muggle, he rarely looked back on his muggle past unless he needed to blend in. My cousins grew up in a near wholly pureblood family. But Hugo and I were raised by mum, who's muggle-born. As such, we had a level of sensitivity and decorum that James largely lacked. _

_But my little brother (and sort of best friend) was off at Durmstrang, learning what not to do. Which meant James was off the leash._

"_Whatever. The point is: brooms strengthen the way we do. If you attach weights to yourself when you fly, your broom will have to work twice as hard to function as it normally does. And when you take off the weights, it uses the power it needs to lift the heavier Rose, which makes…"_

"_A faster broom," I finished, a bit in awe, wondering how no one else had thought of that. "And it will make me stronger and lighter as is. James that is—"_

"_Brilliant?"_

"_Phenomenal!"_

_ "Come that match with Slytherin, you'll get the snitch in two seconds flat, even with half the speed the broom will build up. Hufflepuff won't be a problem. Sam Crosserby couldn't match you if your broom was broken. And when we take on Ravenclaw, you'll match Scor— __**Malfoy**__—_… _you might even beat him. Aren't you glad you gave me a second of the time you could have spent with your 'friends'?"_

_ "Why did you say friends like that?"_

_ "Well," he said, rubbing his chin, which was just beginning to stubble, "other than the family, you aren't really that close with many people. Well, other than Gilda. But you two are fighting."_

_ Incredulous, I stamped my foot against the floor. "I do have friends, James! Of all the pigheaded, offensive— I happen to have become rather close with Leah Franks, for your information!"_

_ James leaned back slightly, looking a bit surprised. Then he leaned in close, invading my personal space._

_ "Are you serious?"_

_ "Wh— yes, why?"_

_ "Er… well, she's quite fit, isn't she?"_

_ "Yes, I suppose. And?"_

_ James smirked. "Reckon you could do a set up for me?"_

_ "I'm not subjecting my friends to you! You broke Lynell Haverson-Well's heart!"_

_ "She kept acting as if I was going to stay with her forever!" he said, shrugging as if it was a perfectly normal reason._

_He ran a through his unkempt hair and smirked again._

_ The train jerked into motion and I stumbled back slightly. James pressed a hand onto my shoulder, steadying me, his eyes concerned and sharp. Once I regained my balance, the care slid from his face and was replaced by the familiar smugness._

_ "Can't have you getting hurt again, can we?"_

_ I glared and picked his palm off my shoulder with a disgusted hand. "Until you can prove to me that you can keep a girlfriend for more than two months, and actually __**care**__ about her, I'm not letting you near my friends."_

_ "But-"_

_ "Hey, Rose!"_

_ Hearing the call of my name, I turned. Leah was leaning out of a compartment and waving._

_ "Speak of the devil," James muttered, his eyes seeming to scan my friend everywhere but her face._

_ "Rosie!" She called again, "Come here, Torrie snuck out and got some Zonko's effect sweets!"_

_ "Be there in a tick!" I turned quickly to James, growling as I whispered, "behave."_

_ "Whatever. Lindley Zhang wanted to 'talk' anyway."_

_ I rolled my eyes and walked down the corridor to the compartment, trying to ignore what 'talking' might be for James and Lindley._

_ "What's the matter, mate?" Leah asked, closing the door behind me. _

_ I took a seat between Torrie Sams and Paridhi Gajra, two Slytherin girls that I'd befriended through Leah._

_ "James is going to 'chat' with Lindley Zhuang," I said._

_ She wrinkled her nose in distaste. "I don't like that girl. Slaggy, not nice. Ain't ever been friendly to me."_

_ "She can't be that bad, can she?"_

_ Paridhi looked at me with wide eyes that must have been filled with utter disbelief. _

_ "Have you been somewhere? Lindley is, like, the hugest bitch anyone has ever met," she said, lowering her voice. "Everyone knows that. At least the girls do."_

_ "The only reason she hasn't tried to steal Shawn from you, Rose, is that he's too old for her," said Torrie._

_ "Wait, what? Why would she 'steal' Shawn from me?"_

_ "It's just what she does," said Leah. "She just likes boys in relationships. Younger boys."_

_ I huffed, crossed my arms, and put my feet up on the seat._

_ "You lot can say whatever you want about her. I'm not going to judge her until I've legitimately met her."_

_ Leah shook her head, acting as if there was something I didn't understand._

_ "No. It isn't like some faulty rumor got spread about her. She is a certified devil; every girl in school agrees. She will __**find**__ a reason to make you feel like such shit. No matter how nice of a person you are. Trust me, Rose."_

_ And, with a loud bang that made everyone jump, the door slid open to show a very uncomfortable looking Gilda._

_ I had a feeling that she was trying to avoid my gaze as much as I was trying to avoid hers._

_ "...Is there room?"_

_ Leah, Torrie, Paridhi and looked at each other, at the floor, anywhere but Gilda. It felt awful. I wanted to say yes. I wanted everything to fix itself. It would have made everything easier. But I couldn't. I didn't._

_ "Fine," she said sharply, closing the door with another bang._

_ When I finally looked up she was gone._

_ "Melin, I'm the worst," I whined, letting my head drop into my lap._

_ "Rose, you are __**not**__ the bad guy in this situation," said Torrie, still staring contemptuously at the door._

_ "Yeah, she's the one who left you drunk without a wand," Paridhi said. "Are you seriously going to beat yourself up about this? Come on, don't be stupid."_

_ "Rosie, you are just about the nicest person I know, and you know that she deserves it," Leah said. Putting a hand on my shoulder, she smiled. "Just shut it and open the Every Flavor Beans. Alright?"_

_ I laughed weakly and did as I was told._

_ There had been a recent development at the Bertie Bott's testing facility that lead to four hundred sixty two new flavors, almost all of which were revolting. Naturally, it was nice to get the rare strawberry rhubarb pie or baked potato, yet the hour was filled with mostly unpleasant surprises. We, veterans in the art of predicting the older flavors, were sure we could easily avoid the nastier flavors. Yet I was surprised when I picked up a bean that looked very much like peach cobbler and found that it tasted rather like a foot. _

_ I had never had much luck with the original three hundred or so flavors. Trying one more only lead to eating soap._

_ "I'm going to go get some Cauldron Cakes.." I licked my lips, still revolted by the taste in my mouth._

_ Flattening my skirt over my legs, I closed the door of the compartment behind me and kept my eyes glued to the floor. The last thing I wanted to see was my cousin snogging Lindley. Or anyone else. And considering that this was an seven hour train ride and his broom was locked in his trunk, one was more likely to find James kissing than one was to find him breathing._

_ I lick my lips again as I near the cart, but stop as soon as I look up._

_ Shit. I should have kept my head down._

_ Standing not too far along the corridor, Gilda and a tall Asian girl were staring one another down, each looking eager to tear the other apart if given the proper provocation. They reminded me of two dragons fighting for a kill._

_"Arnold still talks about you," the Asian girl said with an impatient sigh. "It's irritating."_

_ "Merlin, Lindley, is it possible for you go two seconds without pissing people off?" _

_ "Sorry, it isn't __**my**__ fault that he's still hung up on you. I'm not the one telling him to chase after you. And I didn't have to tell you about Arnold. You should be grateful that someone like Arnold wants you back after... well, I'm sure you know where I'm going with this."_

_ Lindley's mouth curled into a smile so false it was impossible to believe anything genuine could come of it._

_ "No," said Gilda, crossing her arms defensively, "I don't think I do."_

_ "Well it's no secret that you've spent the night at every house other than your own. I mean, I shouldn't be talking... and I feel so bad about it. I mean, we've probably been with the same number of guys, but you're the one who gets called a slag for it."_

_ But it didn't sound like Lindley was sorry at all. In fact, it seemed as if she was trying not to laugh._

_ Gilda's hand closed into a fist._

_ Lindley's saccharine smile returned._

_ "I honestly don't get it," she said, "you guys broke up because you cheated on him, right? But he still wants you back."_

_ "Don't play that card."_

_ "What card?" she asked innocently._

_ "The only reason we split was because you dipped your slimy little bitch hands into our relationship," Gilda snarled._

_ "You have such a bad attitude, Gilda. I mean, I'm trying to make peace with you, right? But if you keep going on like this, I really don't know whether I have the energy to be friends with you. I don't know how that Weasley girl was able to handle you for so long." Lindley turned, stared at me, and leaned against the cart. It weakly pressed into my side. "How __**did**__ you do it?"_

_ All at once, I knew what it was like to be in a hostage negotiation... unarmed. I was stuck. Half of me knew that I had to protect Gilda... but the other side was shaking in its boots, terrified to be the center of Lindley's attention. For some reason, whether it was the fake smiles or her ability to anger Gilda, she intimidated me._

_ "You can't have possibly forgiven her. She left you alone while you couldn't even walk straight."_

_ "You know about that?" I asked, shocked._

_ "Who doesn't know about that? After Gilda went and told the whole common room... it's hard for things like that not to spread like wildfire."_

_ "You __**told**__ people?"_

_ Gilda crossed her arms and looked away. _

_ "You actually told people! What the fuck, Gilda?"_

_ "Oh, honey," Lindley cooed, resting a manicured hand on my shoulder. "It isn't like anyone thought it was funny. Everyone knew, when you two started hanging out, that things were going to go downhill. No one had the heart to tell you what you were getting yourself into."_

_ "I was about to forgive you," I said, wrenching my shoulder out of Lindley's grasp. "I was... whatever. From here on out, we're through. Good luck with your next boyfriend."_

_ "Rose, wait," said Gilda trying to push past the cart._

_ "I'm done with the bullshit. You're on your own."_

_ Lindley smiled and pulled on my arm. "I know it's hard, g-"_

_ "No. I'm not an idiot. Stay away from me. Both of you."_

_ I wasn't crying. Even though I felt like I should have been. My first best friend lasted one month. Or my second best friend, rather._

_ I didn't return to Leah and the others. Step by step, I drifted through the corridor, trying to avoid bumping into people as I moved from car to car. The number of students began to thin as I reached the back of the train, until there were none left and I found an empty compartment. It was growing dark. So I sat and watched the tiny, lit houses go by before they were covered up by another bout of trees. As we rode into a tunnel, I lay down and stare at the ceiling._

_ It was so silent._

_ "Whatever you say next, you don't look okay."_

_ I looked up at the seat across from me. Scorpius Malfoy looked back._

_ "I'm fine," I said, looking back at the window._

_ "No scathing retort this time?"_

_ "Fuck off, Malfoy."_

_ "There it is. So, it's one step forward and two back. Alright. Now. Tell me what's wrong."_

_ "Nothing's wrong."_

_ "Why do you keep saying you're fine when you're anything but? I've known you since I was eleven. I think I know your spectrum of emotions by now."_

_ "Shut it."_

_ "That's right," he said, resting his feet on my bench, "we were friends. Best friends. Why is it so hard for you to let yourself remember that?"_

_ "Because your grandfather spit in my face and you did nothing about it," I said icily, meeting his eyes for the first time in weeks._

_ It was as if I had slapped him across the face. He looked nothing if not shocked. _

_ You know when you have that gut feeling that something terrifying is about to happen? When it's really dark and all you know is that something is going to frighten you if you don't keep walking?_

_ That's what I felt when I looked him in the eyes_

_ He stood to leave._

_ "No, you can't," I said, blocking the door to the corridor. "We're still talking."_

_ "Move."_

_ "NO!" We both stop, frozen staring at each other, surprised at my sudden volume. "You can't go. You can't bring... that... up without letting me talk about it. Did you forget the whole reason I don't want to 'let myself remember'? You and your father sat back and watched as __**he**__ insulted me over and over and OVER AGAIN! Lucius Malfoy terrorized my family! So you cannot just sit there and remember the good times and refuse to acknowledge that the bad times ever happened! You cannot waltz back in and play hero while you act as though I have an unreasonable grudge against you, when you were the coward who ran in the first place. Why did you go? Why... why are you back?"_

_ He stared at his feet as his hand stalled, reaching for the doorknob clasped in my fingers. All I could hear was my own blood, pulsing roughly in my ears. But I could see him breathe. I could see him begging to pull open the door and escape._

_ "Please."_

_ ". . ."_

_ "Please. I deserve to know why. Please, Scorpius."_

_ Our eyes met again._

_ Why did he have to look so much like the person he was back then? Why did I have to change so much?_

_ "What if we just start over?" he asked, clutching the doorknob. "We'll act as if we've never met before, like everything was back then."_

_ "Do you honestly think we're such good actors? I don't want to say that we never met. I was really happy with you back then and I don't want to lose that. And what happened that night helped me grow up."_

_ "Maybe you've grown up a little to much," he said, a wry sort of smile on his face._

_ "And maybe you should stop acting like such a child and answer my question, Malfoy."_

_ His hand slipped from the doorknob and angrily pointed at my face._

_ "No. __**You **__can't do __**that**__. You can't call me Scorpius one moment and then decide you hate me the next. Don't be manipulative."_

_ "It isn't manipulation," I said, "it's a reassessment of trust. Why should I refer to you with anything less than formality if I can't expect you to be honest with me?"_

_ "Because I used to be your fucking best friend for two whole fucking years!" Scorpius shouted, livid._

_ "YOU LEFT!"_

_ "I didn't have a choice!"_

_ "You always had a choice," I spat, itching to grab my wand. "You could have talked to me. You could have owled. An apology. Anything." My eyes began to sting and blur with water, and soon enough my breath shook. "But you just stood there like a typical Malfoy coward. And you were __**never there**__."_

_ I never felt more humiliated. To be sobbing to him, about him, was like serving a dementor my deepest fears, all on a silver platter. It had been so long since I cried over him._

_ "Leave," I said._

_ "Rose-"_

_ "I said leave!"_

_ "Glad to."_

_ He pulled open the door violently and slammed it behind him. I could hear him trudging down the corridor, muttering incomprehensibly. After a few minutes of standing still, eyes locked on the door, the lack of sound finally registered and I knew I was alone. With my back against the glass, I slid down to the floor and stared at my knees, watching blankly as drops of tears fell onto my legs._

_ As the train pulled into the station and I groggily stood, I promised myself that this would be the last time I let a friend hurt me._

_

* * *

_

"Honey?"

I blink slowly and pull my legs out from under the covers.

"Sorry, Mum. I'm still a bit tired."

"Best to get going," Mum says, tying her hair into a bun and folding my blankets, "lots to do today. Your father and uncle have gone to Diagon Alley for some potion supplies, but they'll be back soon. They said that they wanted to play a quick game of quidditch with you. Harry was quite worried when he heard about your feinting accident. Poor bloke blamed himself for teaching you the move in the first place. Mind, I wasn't too thrilled with him either."

"It was my choice to use the move, Mum. Harry shouldn't be blamed for my mistakes."

She looks up from folding the blankets and turned to me, her hands on her waist.

"When did you grow up?"

"I've had to control James, Mum," I grinned, fluffing my pillows.

Biting her lips (to keep from laughing, I assume), she nods.

"Now, we have a few things to get done before Christmas. I want you to help me and Grandma Molly clean The Burrow and help make it presentable. And I know that it's rare for homework to be given for the holidays, but I want to make sure that you put in a little studying every night. If you want, you can give me your books and I can color-code the more important things to learn for-"

"Mum."

She sighs and drops my blanket onto the bed.

"There is nothing wrong with a little bit of organization," she says.

"We went over this before I left in September. We said that if I keep my top marks, you'll leave me to my own devices about school."

Mum uncrosses her arms in exasperation.

"Fine. But go eat some breakfast at least. I don't want you weak when you play quidditch with your father. He doesn't know his own strength."

"I promise, Mum."

She smiles and kisses my forehead, then pulls me into her arms.

"I'm so glad you're home. Been quiet as hell around here. Now... breakfast?"

* * *

** Okay. This chapter took a while, but I loved writing it. I'm beginning to really get a feel for the different characters and dynamics between them. And writing as Hermione is tons of fun. **

** But now, I'm going to do something I hate and ask for specific feedback.**

**IMPORTANT IMPORTANT:**

** A) What do you think about the interactions between Rose and Scorpius? Are there too many interactions? Not enough? Are they too long winded or too short? Too wordy? Too forced? Anything?**

** B) Lindley. She's new. And obviously not a nice girl. What do you guys think about her? Is she too bitchy? Is she believable?**

** C) Final question. Is Rose likable? I wanted to make sure that she was human and had flaws, but I'm worried that she's too flawed. Thoughts?**

**Send in your opinions in reviews. See you next chapter. **

**:)**


	9. Chapter 9 Christmas: Part II

I take my usual seat at the old oak table.

I can still smell the burn on the wood from when Hugo and I were arguing. I was eight and he was six. He'd hid my toy broom from me and refused to tell me where he was keeping it. I got so angry that I lit the tablecloth on fire, and even though I was due for an ear chewing, my father and mother nearly danced with joy. My first show of magic, and they were there to see it.

It's almost sad to think of how much time has passed in this house and how little time I spend in it. When I was little I would spend all day on the porch swing, imagining my own world or reading what I couldn't think up for myself.

Now, I hardly go on it anymore.

"Mum, there's a warming spell cast on the porch, right?"

She stops rummaging through the drawers for a moment and cranes her head past the doorframe.

"Yeah, why?"

"Is it alright if I eat on the swing?"

"Well... I don't see any reason why not. Be careful not to spill any juice on the wood, you know how blackberries stain."

"You're such a neat freak," I say, as I open the door to the porch. "Sound like a housewife."

She laughs, follows me outside, and takes a seat next to me on the swing.

"Rosie, when you live with your father, you have no other choice. It's like taking a second job. He's given me more trouble with messes as an adult than Hugo did as a toddler."

"Speaking of which," I say, pausing to spoon myself some oatmeal, "when is Hugo coming home? He never owled me back."

"Today, actually. Durmstrang students _floo_ home. Absolutely ridiculous. Floo powder can be terribly dangerous, especially for students who aren't used to traveling in such a way. Trains are far safer, and yet the headmaster is too stingy to use them."

"But Hugo _has_ traveled by floo," I point out, my mouth half full.

"Yes, but things can _go wrong_. I would just feel so much better if he returned to Hogwarts with you. How much of a chance do you think I have of getting him to go back early?"

"About as likely as it is for dad to be on time for anything," I say wryly.

Mum sighs and drops her spoon into her yogurt. She stares out at the yard, where two brooms and a few wards are strewn along the dying grass.

"What are you thinking about?" I ask, pulling one of her curls. She smiles that familiar motherly smile and pulls a strand of my hair in return.

"You. You remind me so much of myself at Hogwarts, but when I really think about it... you're nothing like I was. You're relaxed and easy to talk to and you understand."

"Understand what?"

"Things!" she says vaguely. Upon seeing the confused look I give her, she elaborates. "People, for instance. You see past what others judge. You are such a kind girl, Rosie. I wish I had what you have now."

"Mum, you're being stupid. You've never judged anyone in your life."

"_Definitely_ not true. When I first met Luna, I was convinced she was nothing more than a barmy, talentless scatterbrain with nothing to show for herself but some silly jewelry and a handful of crazy theories."

I spill a little juice in surprise, which earns me a surly glare from Mum.

"But I thought you, Luna, and Ginny were best friends. I haven't seen any of you be anything other than completely, genuinely nice to one another."

"Oh, we are... now. I had to do a little growing up before I realized my word wasn't the final word," she muses lightly.

"If you don't mind my asking," I say, pushing the swing with my foot, "what brought all this on?"

She gives me a small, thoughtful smile and her attention returns to the yard. It strikes me how young she looks. While Dad and Harry look quite different from their teenage years, Mum's face looks very much like the picture of her graduating from her wizarding university.

"I was just remembering the first time you came home from Hogwarts, your first year. Remember?"

Almost instantly, my intrigue sours. I do remember. Though I don't care to.

She continues, "If I remember correctly, it was a day or two after Christmas and you were begging to have a friend come over. We were shocked, once we said yes, that it was Scorpius Malfoy who appeared in our fireplace. Your father, of course, was bordering on having conniptions. But… that entire time, all I could think about was your ability to think for yourself."

I grunt, still frowning.

"Maybe I should have listened to what other people were saying."

"I'm glad you didn't. You probably made his life at school much easier, considering his family's reputation."

"Yeah, well, I'm not," I grumble. "I should have believed what Dad said about the Malfoys being stupid, cowardly traitors."

In a quick stir of movement, Mum rips my empty glass and bowl from my hands and stomps into the kitchen without another word. A clash and clang are heard from the kitchen as she drops my dishes into the sink; her mouth is pulled taut into a thin, annoyed line.

"What did I do?"

"You sound like an ignorant fool. You may have been offended by his abandonment, and you may be angry with him, but I refuse to listen to you make generalizations."

"You don't know the whole story!" I shout, crossing my arms over my chest.

"Well, I hope it explains your less than exemplary attitude."

"What the hell! This isn't fair! You can't be so pissy when you only know half of what happened!"

"Well, go on."

"What?"

"Explain. I want to know _why_ you think you have the right to judge others," Mum challenges, looking at me with a livid, fixed stare.

I hear a door close behind me. I turn, the irritation still on my face. And then it lifts as I see my father walk through the door.

He sets down his bags and bounds into the kitchen, his booming clumsy footsteps familiar and comforting. Before I can even say a hello, he picks me up in an uncomfortable hug, not letting go until my back cracks.

"Heavier than you were last year. O.W.L.'s getting to you, eh?"

I scowl playfully.

"Mum says that you ate like a pig when you were my age."

"That's just because she was too busy with her spew thing to pick up a fork."

"Ronald," mum growls warningly, her eyes flashing.

"—And that's why she's so thin and beautiful," dad continued, kissing mum a little bit longer than what I think is necessary. "Lighten up, 'Mione."

Mum's frown softens slightly. She and Dad fight a lot. More than most families, I'd be willing to bet. But I've never been worried about them splitting or hurting each other because of how they are when they're calm. They seem happy. And that's the only word I know that can describe it.

"Can you please _tell _her that it is horrid for her to say that all Malfoys are terrible because she's upset at one?"

"Oh, yeah. I heard the junior ferret was back at Hogwarts. Thought you were finally shot of the little git."

Throwing her arms up in frustration, Mum stalks out of the kitchen and into the living room, the look of irritation still on her face. I look back at Dad and he's watching her, a look of amused adoration on his face.

It's then that I realize that I'm very proud to have inherited his freckles.

* * *

Christmas Eve is a Weasley-Potter tradition. Considering the size of the dining room and the fact that there are over twenty of us, this custom is not without its complications or stresses. The older children and adults (save for Mum and Ginny, who couldn't cook an egg) occupy the rather small kitchen, each person fussing over a different dish, murmuring frantically about how it isn't bubbling fast enough or refuses to thicken. The younger ones usually watch some muggle television or play exploding snap. When we're all gathered, we eat immediately. There is no known Weasley gene for patience when it comes to food. And Mum, who has always preached that love, trust, and kindness are the best methods of childrearing, rapidly descends into a fuming imitation of a Boggart. On Christmas Eve, love, trust, and kindness are promptly shoved onto the backburner.

Those values are quickly fading for me as well, waiting for Dad to help me with dessert. He left the kitchen quite a while ago and has yet to return.

"Ro, does this taste right?" Uncle Harry asks, holding up a spoon of gravy. Blowing away the steam, I take a sip, still whipping the sweet cream with a distracted hand.

"More salt," I say. "Should I add some rosewater to the cream or not?"

"Rosewater," says Harry instantly. "Always. Your rosewater cream is your aunt's favorite— AH!"

With a crack, Uncle George appears on Harry's shoulders, resting his elbows on top of Harry's already messy haired head.

"'Lo, Rosie. Heard you have a beau," George says casually, twisting a lock of dark hair between two fingers.

"Does Dad know?" I call over my shoulder, searching for the rosewater. I'm suddenly very glad that he isn't in the kitchen.

"Since when does he ever realize something short of six months late? Harry, has ickle Ronniekins ever been quick on the uptake?"

"Er, George, not that I don't enjoy your company, but you need to get off my shoulders."

As George (slowly) lowers himself onto the floor, Luna Lovegood glides towards us, smiling airily. Her butterbeer cap necklace jingles with every step and glitter falls from her long hair.

"You should consider getting back on his shoulders, George. None of these rooms are equipped with Flumsnuffer wards."

"Oh?" asks George, looking rather intrigued.

"Yes, yes. Didn't I warn you about the danger they pose to an unwarded body last year? Backwards elbows and all? You Weasleys have very patchy memories. The floor could be crawling with them, you know. Shocker, especially with Albus as your son."

"Apologies, Luna," Harry grins, salting the gravy. "Must have slipped my mind. I'd be quite grateful if you made a few for my home in the Hollow."

"Of course, I don't want your children at risk," Luna says earnestly. "Shall I make some for your shop, George?"

"I'd be insulted if you didn't," he says, winking. "Good year, Luna?"

"No," she smiles cheerfully. "Rolf and I didn't have an easy divorce. Was your divorce enjoyable, George? I sincerely hope so."

I grin inwardly. Had anyone besides Luna asked that question, it would have either sounded rude or idiotic, surely. But it _was_ Luna who asked it, and in result it came off as nothing but genuine. And had it been anyone else, Uncle George would have sunk into one of his moods. His split from Angelina has been very rough indeed. Losing custody sent him into a year-long drinking binge, and he's only been sober for the last year.

But instead of frowning, he laughs.

"I'm sure Angie had much more fun than me. But I've reclaimed visitation rights, so cheers to that."

"Rose," Luna says abruptly, turning so quickly that her hair hits Harry in the face, "would you mind if I gave you your present early?"

"Only if you try the sweet cream."

She raises the whisk to her lips and licks the frothy cream off.

After a few seconds of what seems like a very pensive silence, her already large eyes widen and she exclaims, "Wonderful! The best it's ever been!" She then shoves an artfully wrapped box into my hand and watches intently as I tear away the paper. Under is a brass box containing a pair of silver forks. I know better than to question her, but I still shoot her a bewildered glance.

"They're Gindlefly lures."

"You've never told me about Gindleflies," I say, ready for another seemingly farfetched story that she would likely prove true in a few months. "I've never heard of them before."

"Really?" Luna grabs me close, an apologetic frown pulling on her mouth. "Rose, I'm terribly sorry! They're closer to beetles than flies, actually. But they're wondrous, boosting courage and limiting inhibition wherever they go! Amazing…"

"I don't get any?" George says, crossing his arms. "Miss Lovegood, I'm very hurt!"

"Oh, George, I didn't think you needed any courage! I had no idea! I must make up for this folly. When I come and set up the wards, I will make sure that you have at least three lures for your pocket. Please forgive me."

"One extra lure, and you've good as redeemed yourself."

I mask my smile and lean towards Uncle Harry.

"Doesn't seem like he needs much courage at all."

Harry shakes his head, giving me the impression that he too was trying to hide his amusement. "About time he was interested in someone. Not too bad a choice either."

"Yeah, they suit each other."

"Now. You have a boyfriend. Should I— ARGH!"

Teddy's apparition is unusually loud. Harry's never gotten used to it. After he calms down, he continues to ask me about Shawn. I refuse to tell him anything, even though he's persistent and determined. Harry and dad like to get drunk together when their spouses are away, and a drunk Harry has very loose lips.

Eventually, after dad comes downstairs and Ginny arrives and the Delacour-Weasleys walk lazily into the room, we all sit down at a table too big for the room. The turkey is larger than usual, which is good, since Hugo seems to have increased (probably due to the growth spurt of three inches (this makes me sad)). Victoire sits on one side of me and Hugo sits on the other. Luna, while holding Lysander in her arms, hardly looks invested in her food and animatedly gestures in different directions, most likely telling George (who is sitting diagonal to her) about her latest discovery. He nods along with the story, seeming every bit as interested in her tale as my father is with his plate.

I can tell that Teddy and Victoire are eager to leave the table, and the thought of what might be on their minds doesn't embarrass me as much as I thought it might. Victoire and I exchange smiles. I've been meaning to talk to her about Scorpius, but I always forget. She's the only one who knows about the kiss.

It's strange, I realize. This is the first time I've thought about the kiss without that sour feeling in my stomach; it's never been a fleeting sort of thought.

This isn't right, is it?

_BANG_

Something, or someone, rolls out of the fireplace in a burst of flames, hitting the table with a painful sounding _clunk_. A few people cry out in surprise; Dominique shrieks and jumps onto her chair, knocking over Luce's glass in the process. Luna quickly pulls her wand from the half-bun in her hair and joins the other adults across the room, all the while cradling a crying Lysander in her arms.

The figure stands, and as a familiar head and back become visible, I storm over to her, angrily grab her arm, and spin her to face me. The enigma is easy to recognize.

"Gilda, what the h-"

But I fall short of words as I see her face. Large, purple bruises warp her cheeks and eyes; several cuts on her shoulder are brown with caked blood, crisscrossing over more bruises. I don't want to imagine what else there might be, so I just swallow, my stomach clenching in horror, and all that comes from my mouth is a quiet breath.

"Please, Rose. I don't have anywhere else to be."

Gran Molly stands and carefully approaches us. She puts on a careful, warm smile, but it hardly masks the serious worry under it.

"Rose… why don't you— don't you help her clean up while 'Mione and I set a plate for her? …Would you like that, …dear?"

It takes a while for her to answer, but in time she nods her head, the wounded skin of her neck stretching and wrinkling as it moves.

"Then go. Rosie, get her some of Ginny's old clothes. They're in the hamper left-"

"No," I say quickly, even though I know where the clothes are. "She can have some of mine."

I lead Gilda up to the bathroom, telling her with short sentences to look out for weak stairs. Even as she unsteadily walks up the crooked stairs of the Burrow, I can't bring myself to look at her.

"Here," I say, opening the door to the washroom, "sit on the tub ledge. I'll get some washcloths. So just... wait. Okay?"

I open the cupboard in the hall and sort through the assorted towels and soaps, looking for anything that isn't caked or melted or reeking of mildew. At last, I settle on a pink washcloth and a bar of soap that, ironically, smells like rosewater.

"Here," I say as I turn the tap over the tub. The water gushes out of the faucet and I recoil. Way too hot. I spend a few minutes finding the right temperature, counting down the seconds I have left until I have to look at Gilda in the eye.

Finally, the water feels right. So I dip the cloth and soap in and bring it to a lather.

"You're going to have to take off your shirt."

She shakes her head and presses her arms tighter to her sides.

"I've seen you change hundreds of times. I know your boobs."

"No," she says firmly.

"...There's more under… isn't there?"

"Don't be a busybody. I said no, so stop."

I drop the towel and it lands with a wet _shlop_ on the tiled floor. Ready for another fight, my legs tuck in and bring me to eye level. Concern takes irritation's place.

"You're the one who came _here_. You can be as stubborn you want, but as long as you _are_ here, you're going to accept the help you asked for. Now, are you going to take off the shirt," I croak, exhaling and palming the washcloth, "or am I going to have to knock you out first?"

And then, to my utter surprise, Gilda gives a small nod and a small smile, then, pulls her shirt and bra over her head, exposing her breasts. More scratches, more bruises, though not quite as bad as the ones on her face. I press the soapy washcloth to her chest.

It should feel awkward, shouldn't it? But, in a way, it makes me feel better about the situation. Even though this puts me too close to a reality that terrifies me... it's as if I'm cleaning my up own mistakes as well as her injuries.

Rosewater fills the room as I continue to wipe away the caked blood. Occasionally, a cut will begin to bleed again and I'll have to bandage it. But she doesn't wince. Not once.

I wish she would.

So I can know that she feels something.

So I can still think of myself as the strong one.

"Can I ask you questions?"

"What questions?" Gilda mutters.

"About what happened."

Waiting for her to answer feels like a lie, since I've already resolved to find out...one way or another.

But eventually–

"Yeah. You can ask."

"Was it your father? Did h–"

"Brother," she hisses, "mother. But not my dad. Not my dad."

"…They were angry?"

Gilda's head rises and turns to stare out the window. Warped and drafty with age, the window hardly keeps out the cold. Just like with the rest of the Burrow, everything is sealed, warmed, and held steady by years upon years of spells and enchantments. She runs her hand along the edge of the old-fashioned tub.

"Yes," she says, face stoic. But her hands still reach, and touch, and wring around themselves. "We, me, my mother, and my brother, were getting ready for tomorrow. We celebrate on Christmas day."

After a thick pause, I move toward her arms, scrubbing away the ash and dirt of the fireplace. Gilda picks at her nails until they're jagged and down to the nub.

Her focus persistently on her hands, she continues. "He asked me to use magic to help set up. Since they can't; they're both squibs. But when I told my brother that it would get me into trouble, he just… exploded. It just escalated." She groans slightly as the hot water washes over one of the larger scrapes. "They got a little carried away."

My hand falls limply unto the edge of the tub and I stare at all the marks on her body.

The bruises cover her like some sort of cruel pattern.

"Why didn't you tell me?" I ask, more of a plea than a question.

"Oh. That's a comfortable conversation to start up. And it wasn't quite easy to talk to you, with the peach you were being."

"Hey! You were being a right git as well! Don't place all the blame on me."

She snarls under her breath and her nostrils flare, "I wasn't the one who bought every word that stupid bitch fed you."

"What?"

"Lindley!" she barks, shrugging her shoulder out from under my hand.

"It… it wasn't true?" I mumble, hesitant, not quite wanting an answer.

The window slams shut against the wind, rattling the shelves, the bottles set upon them tink-tinking and scraping against one another. Gilda's magic feels different from my own, more extreme. I haven't seen wandless magic in a long time. It's startling.

"Of course it wasn't true," she says, nearly hissing. "Do you really think that I'm that horrible? That I'd tell my entire house? The joke was stupid, but I never said anything. Whatever she found out, it didn't come from me."

"But she said that everyone knew about it."

"Because she's the one spreading it, then."

"...But she has no reason-"

"She doesn't need one! She's Lindley! She doesn't need a reason! There's no reason for her to dangle my ex in my face, but she does. Bitch probably tortures children without any reason."

We finally laugh. Not a chortle to lessen the discomfort of a silence, nor a nervous one to fill the gaps between awkward sentences. And of course not a deafening laugh that shakes us from out feet to our hair, but it doesn't matter. It's involuntary and real.

And sort of heartbreaking, so I hug her tight to me, shirtless and all, and bite my lips hard as we cry together.

"I'm sorry," I sputter. Her clavicle digs into my forehead. "I stopped being mad a long time ago. People just… were nice to me and I made friends, so I listened to them when they told me not to forgive you."

"But Rose-"

"I know," I say hastily, interrupting her before another argument can start, "I'm not justifying. Never. Just explaining. It was immature. I'm sorry."

She nods, and her chin hits the top of my head, hard.

Again, a shared laugh. But this one, mixed with the tears, sounds more like a strangled cough.

"I'm sorry too," she says, still giggling lightly, "I should have apologized properly. And that joke was unfair. And… I _guess_… that I could stand… to have a _little_ less… pride… oh Merlin, can we please talk about something else?"

"Did that sting?"

"More than you know."

Quiet falls for the third time in the washroom. But it's better now. It gives me time to deescalate and allows the adrenaline left over to ebb away. And unexpectedly, things start to feel sort of… normal. In the last hour Gilda has burst in, covered in bruises, and suddenly everything settles. Like it's okay to just… talk.

Which, surprisingly, feels right.

I flip the toilet lid down and sit on it, staring at my friend. She changes into the clothes I gathered for her, and though it's a bit tight in the chest area, she seems comfortable.

"How's the thing with Malfoy?"

My head snaps up and I knot my fingers together.

"What thing?"

"Albus told me why you hate him…" she says with a guilty sort of frown.

"When?"

"That day in potions, when we first-" she begins, but then pauses and looks away. "Albus was angry that I forced you into working with Scorpius. He explained. Said that you never really got over it."

"…I was beginning to. Had he come next year… ah, I'd probably be the same. But things were getting normal, and then he comes back in acting as if nothing ever… as if he…fuck."

Touching my fingers to my temples, I try to find the words I need.

"A few weeks ago, I was sure that I hated him. Or mostly sure, at least. Now… I don't even know. Like, I almost want things to go back, but I know they can't and I hate him, but don't, and, damn, it's so confusing…"

Gilda shrugs and carefully slides backwards into the tub, resting her feet on the ledge.

"Look, Rose, I know you're super smart and top of your class and good at every other fucking thing you try, and I mean this in the best of ways, but aren't you being a little stupid? _Talk_ to him. And I don't mean yell," she says, smirking, "or being snarky towards him-"

"I am _not snarky_ towards-"

"No?" she laughs. "Unless you feel indebted to him, which you _should_, by the way, you're ready with ten insults. _Tell_ him that you miss him and _tell _himthat you're angry at him."

"You don't get it," I say.

"I don't. But Scorpius does. And the only way he'll listen and change is if he knows what you want from him."

"All I want from him is to be left alone."

But that isn't true, is it?

I want him to still be afraid of flying. Whenever I sat alone in the library, my eyes would constantly flit over to the table we always sat at, where we used to sit with the intention of studying but always ended up laughing instead. Work and duties and relationships would pile up around me, but no matter how hard I'd focus, my thoughts would always drift back to him, wondering if he kept my room in the Covelly house or how his mother has been.

Truth be told, I want more things from him than I can readily list.

"It's okay, Ro. Just talk to him. It won't be easy. …But I can promise that it will feel better than this. We can figure things out. One thing at a time. You protect me, I protect you.

"Now," she says, smirking and resting a coy hand on her knee, "reckon we should go down? It's been quite a while."

I guide her again through the labyrinth of stairs, pointing out the places that leave splinters in feet. I'm so used to The Burrow, so accustomed to the wooden fortress' gaps and holes, I would be able to find my way to each room while stepping around each pitfall. It takes so long to get her down to the dining room, I'm surprised that there are still people at the table.

But there are. They all are.

And a place is set for Gilda, right between Victoire and me. Her plate is piled high with mashed potatoes and gravy, turkey, peas, bread, and ham.

Gilda looks around the room uncomfortably, as if unsure whether taking a seat would be appropriate. But, with every Weasley and Potter eye on her, she pulls out her chair and takes a seat, blushing slightly.

Everyone must be thinking what I thought when she first tumbled out of the fireplace. As if anyone human could think of anything else! But I'm glad that they carry on as if nothing had happened; Gran Molly offers her some more gravy.

* * *

"I slept with Shawn," I say suddenly.

We'd blown out the candles a while ago. We had gotten into bed not much after. But neither of us have fallen asleep. There's been too much to think about, especially with all that's happened within the last month. With a single chime, the clock on the wall reminds us of how long we've been lying awake.

"What?" Gilda says after a long time.

I shrug, forgetting that she probably can't see it in the dark.

"Wait, are you—… you're serious?"

"No, just imagined it. _Yes_, I think I know when I've had sex."

"But Shawn's super-Christian," she says.

"Well… he still did it," I say.

I turn over to face her and I can see her grinning.

"How?"

"Sort of pressured him into it," I say, chuckling guiltily.

"_Really?_"

"Yeah. Yelled at him, tried to convince him it wasn't a sin. Should I feel bad?"

Shawn had avoided me the rest of the week, going as far as to skip a day of practice. I probably should feel horrible.

"Should I?" I ask again.

"No! Not at all. Sex is natural, right?"

"I s'pose…"

"And it was good, right?"

"Er… it was alright... Thought it would hurt more, so… sort of okay, yeah."

Gilda sits up sharply, grinning harder, looking like she's trying to hold in hysterical laughter. For some reason, her black eye makes her eyes look happier.

"You're the worst girlfriend in all history."

"_Am not_," I say, rather incredulous. Even so, I too bite my lips in laughter.

She grins, "You had your way with your boyfriend. You _raped_ him."

"_Gilda!_"

"Criminal." She flicks her wand and the candles glow at once. After my eyes stop stinging from the sudden light, everything comes into focus. Gilda is leaning against the headboard of the handmade bed I use whenever I stay at the Burrow. Every time she shifts, I worry that she'll scrape her shoulder on one of the knots. She strains to reach a bag on the nightstand and grabs a licorice wand. "You're going to Azkaban, you dirty witch."

I bury my face in the pillow.

"Eewustewintsayes," I say, muffled, through the pillow.

"Sorry?"

"He was the one to say yes," I say, after a gulp of air.

"Must love you, that boy must."

"Probably."

Clicking her tongue, Gilda looks away.

"What?" I ask, suspicious.

"I don't… oh, never mind."

"No, it's okay," I bring my knees up to my chest and wait, hugging my legs.

She sighs and looks back, shockingly serious. Her scars and bruises, though fainter after being healed by mum, make her expressions more extreme and it's honestly scary.

"It's just that," she begins, tapping a finger on the windowsill, "well, I don't really get why you're still with Shawn. I mean, other than he's gorgeous. But…?"

Nodding slowly, I look out at where her stare had been before. A fox sneaks through the tall grass, sniffing along the fence, probably trying to find a way to the chickens.

I look back. "It's really easy. Predictable, safe… there are so many people I have to keep track of, and they all think of me differently and confuse me and surprise me. So it's just… nice to have someone simple who I can really, really count on to not change or think of me differently if I make a mistake." The fox continues to poke his nose through the wire fence; the chickens almost tease him as they waddle past, their fluffy tail feathers twitching near the tempted fox's snout.

"I care about him. He's very sweet to me, and I have no reason not to be with someone so good."

"Yet you're still not happy," she points out.

"Yes I am!" I say, pouting indignantly.

But at the same exact time, something in me is very confused as to whether it's even near the truth. I have happy days. There are days where I catch the snitch in front of hundreds of screaming Gryffindors, or laugh until my stomach hurts with Leah or Torrie or Paridhi. Plenty of those days, every month.

Despite all that, it's hard to argue that what Gilda says isn't true. How long _has_ it been since I was a truly happy person?

'Three years,' a voice whispers sneakily.

Who am I to doubt my own good fortune? Of course I'm happy. Everything is great. How could I not be anything but delighted? So I should be, and so I am. Satisfied with everything. Completely.

I lie back down and wave my wand, dimming the candles.

Gilda follows suit.

Before I fall asleep, she mutters one last thing:

"Azkaban."


	10. Chapter 10 Christmas: Part III

The door jingles behind me as I close it. Others, like Gilda, prefer the busy bustle of the more frequented shops. But I've always been comforted by the tiny library at the end of the street. True, it's not very complete and the number of volumes is limited, but it's quiet and warm and dry and deserted.

And in this kind of rain, it's exactly what I need.

The librarian greets me quietly as I drop off my wand in the front. I like the honor code they keep.

The backroom is usually empty. People don't come in here very much and it's a little bit dusty. To be perfectly honest, it gives one the feeling of being watched, but I still take some small comfort in the lack of noise.

But today it's not empty. And though it's only one extra person, I think I'd feel better in a crowd.

"Stalking, Rose?" he asks, not looking up from his parchment. A strand of his blond hair falls over his nose.

"What are you doing here?" I shoot back, feeling caught somewhere between inquisitive and reproachful.

"Research. You?"

"Studying."

"Oh."

I stare at him for a while after that. I keep expecting him to say something else. Maybe some small talk or some pleasantries to exchange, an insult, even. But he just sits there, hunched over the table, his quill scratching quietly against the slightly wrinkled parchment.

So I sit down. And I pull out a book. And I write.

Mostly, it's just notes. Basic dates, events, names of people that sound important. I do a little background research on them, sometimes venturing past the textbook assigned. Every twelve notes or so I find something interesting and write it down. I use red ink for those, but the rest are black.

But when I look down at the parchment, the words are lopsided. Some words are larger than others, some are all the same size but seem to be following a winding path. It's coherent, but it's not very organized.

Had I even been looking at my paper?

"Can… can we talk?"

He looks up, surprise pulling up his eyebrows and dropping his mouth into a gape. He shakes it off and stammers, "Y-yeah. Er, about… us?"

"Not us. We're not really an us. About what… what happened."

"…Sure. What about it?"

"Well," I begin, laying my quill gingerly on the table, "I want this out of the way. And you need to understand why I was, _and am_, upset."

"Well, my grandfather sort of..… Well, in any case, I think I understand."

"No," I say simply.

He looks up sharply as if about to say, "huh?"

And for some reason, his lack of understanding feels insulting.

"I've been called worse, and scarier things have happened to me. What upset me… was that you weren't there."

"How was I not there? I was next to you."

"Next to me," I say, gathering my books into my bag as I stand, "but not there. I have to go."

With a quick whip of his wand, the door closes and locks with a defined click. He sits on the edge of his chair and looks at me, as if waiting for me to say something scolding or rude. But I just turn the rest of my body to face him, stubbornly rooted on spot, hand defiantly glued to the doorknob.

"Sit," Scorpius says, pointing to the chair. It isn't an offer or suggestion.

"I'm fine wh—"

"Sit," he says again, with an air of finality so great that it scares me to disobey him. I sit. "Talk."

"What?"

"You said that we needed to talk. What do you mean I wasn't there?"

I cross my arms and lean back into the chair, torn between my defensive need to resist and the plain truth of his words. I was the one who wanted to talk and I'm the one who brought all of this discomfort on myself.

But saying what I actually feel out loud makes me feel so embarrassed and upset that my heart pounds fast. I try swallow, but it feels like something very large and sharp is caught in my throat.

"Rose. What did you mean?"

I take a shaky breath and say, "I mean that you did nothing at all… nothing. And I was just waiting for some sign of where you were or what was happening, but you just disappeared with no damn trace and _I_ was the one who had to deal with it."

"You wouldn't understand, Rose."

"What could I possibly not understand?" I shriek. Remembering that we're in a library, I drop my voice. "Lucius, he said _everything_ and then he— he…" I can't find a comfortable way to say it. It just doesn't sound right coming out of my mouth, and it's sort of toxic tasting, heavy.

"I know," he says softly. "I do. And I understand why you're angry. But we're coming from different places and you wouldn't get it."

"Try me," I counter, my voice hoarse from screaming.

The librarian says something scolding through the door, but she's muted by the distance between us and all the of paper absorbing her words.

Scorpius hangs his head with a loaded sigh, his hands knotting together behind his neck.

I quell a fleeting yet powerful urge to touch his knee in comfort.

He looks up and his lips curl into a sickly impression of a smile. The only thing I can compare it to is the face of someone about to cry in fury.

"There's some things you should know about my grandfather," Scorpius says, his fist balled. "He thinks differently than decent wizards do. What he sees isn't a free world or peace or shit like that. And Muggleborns, even halfbloods, to him, aren't increasing the wizarding population… but diluting magic. My grandfather was and will always think like a Death Eater."

A long chill blossoms through me and I suppress a shudder.

"My father spent a long time alone, completely isolated… hidden, I think. He was never direct about it, but I think he ran and hid. My grandfather scares him. More than he scares me. The war was sort of... traumatic for Dad. After it was over, he says Lucius kept rambling on and on about "finding a new plan", "recouping ", "making smaller strikes", just muttering and muttering, like he was insane. So, really, my dad isn't the person you met. I learned that after what happened. He's terrified of his father and ashamed of himself." Scorpius looks at me with a haunted sort of stare. "Should I stop?"

"No," I say, barely above a whisper, having a hard time find a voice to speak with.

"This is more than just what's between our families, Rose. There's no tension for him because he has no fucking restraint. To him," he hisses, "he saw you as an insult, as my own disrespectful 'fuck you'."

"Regardless, you could have at least talked to me afterwards. Something. Hell, anything."

He lets out two dark laughs and nothing more.

"You're overestimating my bravery," says Scorpius. "He already hated me. And then he met you. You put me in a lot of danger."

"So, essentially, you were a coward," I summarize.

"Basically."

"So what I've been thinking is dead on. That's encouraging," I spit.

He takes his wand out and waves it, gently this time. The door unlocks and creaks open a bit. After a few seconds of staring at the exit, I look back at him.

"You can go if you want to."

I do. Every instinct is telling to bolt through that door and not waste any time my looking back. But when I look back at him, I can see the regret. He missed me. He still does.

I've missed him too.

"No," I say. His head snaps up, his eyebrows rise. Clearly, this wasn't the reaction he was expecting. "Let's… walk."

"Where?"

"Shit, I does it matter?…Er, the side streets. No one uses the side streets. Do you have an umbrella?"

"No. Do you?" he asks, casting a worried glance at his reflection on the rain-warped windowpane. Though he'd never admit it, he hates getting his hair wet because it makes him look a bit bald. I stifle a laugh.

"No."

The side streets are a blinding contrast to the cheery windows and signs of Diagon Alley, which in the rain is charming at its worst. But the side streets are painful. There are still some burned doors and shattered windows, houses so broken and unrecognizable that one can hardly imagine a time when they were anything more than a collection of tatters. Mum says that they were forgotten like this because the Ministry wouldn't put the money into fixing them.

But to me, I guess I see them as scars of I time I don't really understand.

I stop in front of a house that might have been beautiful at one time or another. I hear Scorpius' foot steps behind me and they come to a stop. He's close enough for me to feel a faint human sort of warmth on my hand. For some reason, I have the urge to stop calling him Malfoy, but it's an impulsive thought and Grangers aren't impulsive beings.

The curtains behind the spider webbed glass flutters a bit in the wind and some of the rain leaves darker spots on the fabric.

"Why did you leave?" I hear myself say, sounding very sad.

Scorpius puffs out his cheeks and runs a frustrated hand through his now translucent hair.

"Shit, Rose. I thought you of all people would have known."

"You're mistaken," I say, crossing my arms, turning to look at him. To my slight surprise, he looks a bit sad too.

"Your Mum works in the high-ups of Prophet… Every wizarding family in the country has a grudge against my family for one reason or another. Staying wasn't worth the risk. We only came back this year because we thought it had quieted down, but—"

"It never even got out." I adjust the bag hanging on my shoulder. It presses down on the bone in a painful sort of way. "Mum doesn't like messing with the peace. Where did even you go?"

"Switzerland," he says, his voice flat. It's warning. He doesn't want to go into it.

The wind blows faster and the rain falls harder and all I can really think of is how strange things can be. The details that could wind themselves into the statement don't do so. It's just the strangeness of life that sits heavy in my thoughts, and such a flat thought is a bit soothing.

Not just because it's brief, but because it's true as well.

"Do you hate me, Malfoy?"

"Do you hate me?" he counters, looking up at the apartments above the once-fancy house, sort of grimacing against the rain.

"I used to think so." I say, staring at the rubble, feeling a bit disconnected and gloomy. "Hating you made things…"

"Easier," he finishes, as if he knows and has been through every second of the last three years with me.

I nod. And something comes over me because I feel like he understands.

"But now, I don't think hate is the right word. Not _really_. It's confusing. Because I'm still really hurt by your cowardice and lack of care at on that day, but your being back has reminded me that you aren't the horrible person I convinced myself you were. …And things are always a little more complicated than I expect them to be."

The old house howls in the wind. Scorpius wipes away some of the water on his face.

"I am insulted by you," Scorpius says. "Calling me Malfoy, not talking to me, taking every chance you can to insult me… I suppose all this is fair in some way or another. But I don't like it."

"You're the one who abandoned me," I point out, a bit more playfully this time.

"Yes, but it isn't like it's all a simple matter. And you could have just as easily talked to me and sorted all this out months ago, instead taking on a personal mission to be as bitchy as possible."

I laugh in shock, placing a hand to my chest in semi-offence.

"No to mention the fact that I saved your arse twice without much gratitude," Scorpius continues.

"I said thank you!"

"Sure, after having to Crucio you pride into submission."

"It was still an apology."

"Hardly," he says, blinking fast. The rain keeps pouring on, and eventually Scorpuis' hair is so wet that it looks positively invisible. I stifle another laugh but a large grin still worms its way out of my control. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing," I say, still trying to rein in that smile, "funny thought is all."

"Oh."

"By the way," I say, "thank you, well, proper thank you, for saving me both on the pitch and on the lawn. I'd be in a really bad spot if you didn't so… thank you."

"…So you don't hate me anymore…?" says Scorpius, with all the caution of a skittish bird, watching my eyes as if he'd be ready to run at any sign of aggression.

I walk again. He follows. Most of the houses on this street are very much like the old, broken-windowed, curtained house. But some are still standing, though blemished with burn marks and slightly worse for wear.

"No… I guess I don't hate you. Mind you, I'm still bloody furious. I understand your situation, but it doesn't change what happened."

"Angry… but not hate. So you must like me somewhat."

"Still not sure about that."

"Friends?" he asks. I look up at his eyes and recognize the same playful hope that he used when trying to get me on the bicycle.

I snort. "Definitely not friends. Blimey, it's cold. Fancy a butterbeer, Scorpius?"

His face breaks into one of the largest grins I've ever seen on him. It looks much nicer on him than a frown does.

"Sure I do, Weasley."


End file.
